Hope, the Hermit: A Novel

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HOPE THE HERMIT

HOPE THE HERMIT

A NOVEL

BY

EDNA LYALL pS ct

Author of " Dokbbn/' " Waytaiung Mbn," ** Donovan,'* ** In
GoLDBN Days," ** To Right thb Wrong," btc., btc.

\-'^

Vv)UK 4^.

NEW YORK
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.

LONDON AND BOMBAY
1898

Ti!E U\\ Y(I1:K

PrBLFC LIDKAUY

73348B

SI OR. LLXOX AM) J

KMO L I

Copyright, 1897, by
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.

AU rigkts rtttrtf€d

Pnn ofj. J. Little & Co.
Astor nace. New Yock

" Once fai a blithe greenwood, Hv'd a hermit wiie and good,

Whom the folks from far and near

For his counsel sought, knowing well that what he taught

The dreariest of hearts would cheer.

Though his hair was white, his eye was clear and bright

And he thus was ever wont to say:
' Though to care we are born, yet the dullest mom

Often heralds in the fairest day!'

Pray, is the hermit dead ? from the forest has he fled

No, he lives to counsel all

Who an ear will lend to their wisest, truest friend.

And Hope, the hermit's name they call;

Still he sits, I ween, 'mid branches ever green,

And cheerly you may hear him say:

' Though to care we are bom, yet the dullest mom
Often heralds in the fairest day!' "

—From Chappell's ''Old EngHsh DitHisr

B>e&icate&

TO

THE REV. CANON AND MRS. RAWNSLEY

IN MEMORY OF PLEASANT HOURS AT

CROSTHWAITE

HOPE THE HERMIT

CHAPTER I

The sun had set. A crimson glow lit up the western
sky and lingered on the mountain tops^ but the little
white farm among the hills was already in shadow.
There it stood in lonely Watendlath, and even on this
summer evening in the year 1668 its walls had witnessed
the joys and sorrows of many generations. Yet never
had so sad a story been enacted in the old house as the
one which was now drawing to a close— dying out with
the day, but less peacefully.

A deep porch with stone steps led up to the thick
oaken door heavily studded with nails, but wide open
now to let in the summer air; in the large house-place,
or kitchen, two women sat by the fire talking, and to
the left a door led into a second room which, in a
sudden emergency, had been converted into a guest
chamber.

The guest was evidently dying. Death was written
on her white face and pale lips, which contrasted so
curiously with the ruddy face of the little newborn
child, nestled on her arm. They were in every way a
contrast. The mother, a mere girl of seventeen, wore
a look of heartrending grief and anxiety; the baby was
wrapt in a peace as profoimd and untroubled as if he
had begun an existence in the Garden of Eden, instead

3 HOPE THE HERMIT

of being launched on the waves of this troublesome
world.

^If only your father would come/ sighed the girl.
' If only I could once hear him promise to care for you!
Yet what use would it be? He ever promises and
promises. Did he not vow at our marriage to cherish
and love me — and what has it proved? For a week of
happiness I have lost home and all who loved me there.'

And at this thought she fell a-crjring, but was terri-
fied to find that her sobs were quite tearless. Had not
her old nurse at home once told her that the dying can
shed no tears? ' Oh, John! ' she moaned, * come back
to me! Come back! I can't die alone in this strange
place.'

The mistress of the house, kind-hearted Mary Wilson,
paused for a minute in her talk, thinking the babe had
cried ; but finding that all was still she took up the
thread of her story again, and poured into the ears of
the neighbour who had come to bear her company that
night the amazing news which had stirred the quiet
Cumberland farmhouse from its usual peace.

Two nights ago, just as it was growing dusk, a gentle-
man wearing the usual long, curled wig, and with
feathers in the broad-brimmed hat which was pulled
low over his brow, had knocked at the door of the farm
and had begged their hospitality for his wife, who was
quite unable to travel further. He had lifted the lady
from the pillion and half led, half carried her into the
house, whereupon Mary Wilson, seeing the plight she
was in, and touched by the sweet face and golden-brown
eyes which had lighted with relief as they looked into
hers, hastened to make the guest-room ready. Busy
with her preparations, she had never noticed the gentle-
man riding away from the farm, but when she came
back into the house-place there was the lady all alone
by the hearth crying like a tired child.

••• • •

• • • • ' "

• - • • .

HOPE THE HERMIT 3

The neighbour^ who had listened to all this with
bated breathy made that shocked sound with her tongue
against the roof of her mouth by which women can
express so much.

^ " He shouldna hae left ye/^ says I to her/ resumed
Mary Wilson. ^ But at that the leddy drew herself oop
an^ says she, " My husband will coom back; he will but
leave me to rest awhile.^' I said nae mair an' juist helped
her to bed, but in the momin' I saw how *twad be, and
at cock-crow to-day the laal bam was bom.'

^ A doot the gentleman will never coom back,' said the
neighbour, shaking her head ominously. / It's the auld
story.'

^ Mappen they've never been weddit,' said Mary Wil-
son. ' But I'm loth to think ill of the puir leddy. Any-
hoo, she's deein'. She'll no be lang in this world, puir
soul.'

In the next room all this had been quite audible, nor
did the Cumbrian dialect at all veil the truth from the
dying girl. It was perfectly familiar to her, and the
words went to her heart like a sword-thrust. She drew
down the little unconscious child closer to her heart,
holding him with a passionate devotion, as if her frail
arms could shield him from the hard, cruel world.

' It's a lie,' she whispered. ^ You are his true son and
heir, my sweet one. Oh, John! why don't you come
back to me? Why did you make me promise not to tell
them our name?'

What was that last thing they had said? She was
dying? Would not be long in this world? Why, then,
this little defenceless child of hers would be left name-
less and unfriended, with a doubt, a horrible slur, cast
on his birth! Was she bound still to keep her word and
to say nothing? Or could it be true that her husband
was so utterly weary of her that he really never meant to
return? Unhappy as her year of married life had been.

4 HOPE THE HERMIT

she was yet too loyal to credit such a thought as that.
He had often left her for weeks at a time, but he had
always returned. The haunting thought remained,
however, that he might return now too late. Nor could
she flatter herself that he would take very much trouble
about his child. It was not John's way to burden him-
self — ^he left the burdens to other people.

^ Happen they^ve never been weddit,' her hostess had
said. Other people would say the same, very likely, and
the child would be the sufferer. What could she do for
him?

In those days wedding rings were not all of one pat-
tern; any ring served. She drew from her finger the
one her husband had given her. It was a thick gold
ring with a large sapphire set in it, and the posy en-
graved on the inner side was this:

In Christ and thee my comfort be.

A little tearless sob escaped her as she glanced at the
words. ^ John ' had proved a sorry comforter, and had
deserted her in her greatest need. She had excused him
with a sort of patient dignity when Mary Wilson blamed
him, but in her heart she knew that he had cruelly
neglected the woman he had vowed to love and cherish.

^ I will fasten this round the child,^ she said to her-
self; ^ maybe it will speak for him when I am gone.'
And catching at a bit of green ribbon which hung from
her travelling cloak, she tore it off with some difficulty,
threaded the ring on it, and tied the ends securely under
the child's clothes.

At this he woke and began to wail piteously, which
brought Mary Wilson from the next room. She just
glanced at the shadowy face on the pillow, and then
called quickly to her neighbour to conie and hold the
infant.

HOPE THE HERMIT $

^ The puir leddy is passin' awa^/ she said, lifting the
child from its mother^s breast and giving it to her com-
panion. ^ Tell me the gentleman's name, dear/ she
pleaded, raising the dying girl's head tenderly.

There was a slight gesture of refusal. The colourless
lips closed firmly.

^ Tell me juist his name/ urged Mary Wilson, * or
your feyther's name. Mappen the gentleman hath
wronged thee, but ^

She broke off, astonished by the energy and strength
which suddenly nerved the form she was supporting.

The dying girl sat bolt upright; a glow of colour rose
in her pale face.

'I call God to witness that he is my lawful hus-
band,' she cried, and without another word she fell back
dead in Mary Wilson's arms.

The sunset glow had faded and the night had set in
when two travellers passed by the gloomy Watendlath
tarn, upon which the moonlight made a broad, silvery
track.

^ Ha! ' exclaimed the elder of the two, ^ the good folk
at the farm are still astir; there's a light in the window.
What does that bode? I wish, Christopher, you would
go on and ask how Lucy fares. You can say her hus-
band hath sent for tidings. It would be as well that I
should not show my face in Watendlath an it can be
helped.'

* What is the name of the farm people? ' asked Chris^
topher Vane, a somewhat thick-set and heavy-featured
lad who looked about eighteen, but was in reality
younger.

^ Their name is Wilson. But the man himself is away
at some fair. I will wait for you here. Already we
have roused all the dogs of the place.'

Christopher Vane, not much liking his errand, but
WJCUstojned to obey this brilliant friend of his, who was

6 HOPE THE HERMIT

a courtier and a wit besides being fifteen years his senior^
moved off in the direction of the little white farm and
knocked at the door.

* How fares it with the lady who came here for shelter
two nights ago? ^ he asked, when Mary Wilson appeared
in answer to his summons.

^ Oh, sir, she has passed awa^ this verra night,' replied
the good woman. ^ Her laal bam — ^a son, sir — ^was bom
at cock-crow.'

Christopher Vane made a stifled ejaculation. *■ Wait a
bit,'he said; ^I must speak a fewwords to my friendhere.'

Mary Wilson saw him stride hastily down to the side
of the little beck, which foamed and tumbled over its
rocky bed not far from the house. He disappeared in
the shadow of the trees, and after a few minutes a taller
and older man came slowly forward into the moonlight.
Looking sharply at the plumed hat and the general out-
line of the form, the mistress of the house had no
difficulty in recognising the strange gentleman who had
asked for shelter two nights since, but then, as now, his
face had been half hidden.

* Where is the child? ' he said, abruptly.

She led him into the kitchen, where, in a wooden
cradle, lay the newborn infant.

* Put one of the lady's cloaks about it and give it to
me,' he said, with the merest glance at the little dark
head nestled into the pillow.

Mary Wilson hesitated. ^The night is cauld, sir,'
she ventured, ^ and a babe in swaddling clothes ^

^ Do as I tell you,' he said, with a peremptory gesture,
^ and let me have a light here.'

He moved towards the inner room and Mary Wilson
lit a candle, and would have carried it for him into the
death chamber; but, taking it from her with a hand
which trembled a little, he went in, shutting the door
behind him.

HOPE THE HERMIT 7

In the presence of death a momentary sense of awe
had quenched the courtier^s mirth. EUs heartless
schemes were for a while checked; tears stood in his eyes
as he looked on the lovely, tranquil face of the girl he
had loved for a few weeks and whose life he had wrecked.

^ Poor Lucy! ^ he muttered. * It would have been
well for both of us if we had never met! And now here
is this cursed brat to be disposed of! Why had he not
the grace to die with you? '

He drew the sheet once more over the face of the dead
girl, and, setting down the candle, paced to and fro with
knitted brow.

^ There is no help for it,^ he said to himself at last.
^ He stands in the way of all my schemes. And after all
who will be the worse for it? That it goes against my
stomach proves naught.*

He caught up the warm travelling cloak which Lucy
had worn but a day or two ago, and strode back to the
kitchen, where Mary Wilson held the sleeping child in
her arms. The firelight flickered upon the rosy little
face; how full of life it seemed after the marble face
in the inner room! He shuddered and turned away,
ostensibly to count out some money from his purse.

^ I am obliged to you for all you have done,* he said,
placing some gold pieces in the woman's hand.

^I want no payment, sir,' she replied, with quiet
dignity. * The puir leddy was welcome to a' the help
I could gie her.'

* Then keep this for the burial,' he said quickly. * I
would stay to arrange things myself were it possible, but
urgent and pressing business calls me away from this
part of England. Give me the child.'

Between the thought of the burial of the poor lady,
and what her husband would say to it all when he came
back from the fair, and this sudden demand for the
infant^ Mary Wilson was so much agitated that words

8 HOPE THE HERMIT

failed her^ nor did she venture on a second remonstrance
when the gentleman took the sleeping child in his arms^
flung a comer of his own short cloak over it, and, with a
promptitude which fairly bewildered her, threw open
the door and passed down the steps. When he had
actually disappeared her faculties returned to her, and
hastening out into the porch she called after him
eagerly, ^ Sir, sir, at least tell me your name! ^

But there was no reply, nor could she even hear his
footsteps. A passing cloud had hidden the moon;
nothing was to be seen but the dark outline of the hills,
nothing was to be heard save the familiar rushing of the
little beck. But after a while, as she stood there strain-
ing her ears in the hope of hearing his steps, she caught
the dreaded sound of the phantom hounds baying as
they hunted the ^ barf oot stag.^ Then in deadly terror
she closed and barred the door, and, crouching beside
the kitchen fire, said the Lord's Prayer for comfort; for
was it not well known that the ^ barf oot stag,' the terror
of that part of the country, always went through
Watendlath tarn, and was chased over the fells down
into Borrowdale?

In the meantime Christopher Vane had been rejoined
by his companion, and the two men were making their
way to Eosthwaite.

^ It's well you know the path,' said Christopher,
stumbling down the rough track. ^You seem to the
manner bom.'

^ Well, that's not unnatural,' replied his friend. ^ This
part of the world was known to me as a boy, and one
doesn't forget things learnt in youth.'

A muffled wail made Christopher start.

' Good lord! what's that? ' he cried, in alarm.

'No banshee,' said his companion, with a laugh.
' Only this brat of mine has roused up, worse luck to
him.'

HOPE THE HERMIT 9

' You haye brought the child away? '

^Yes; it was the safest plan. The woman would
neyer have kept him without asking a score of awkward
questions^ she was too shrewd for that.'

' What shall you do with it? ' said Christopher.

^ Dispose of it somewhere in Borrowdale^ the loneliest
place in creation^ and then ignore the fact that it eyer
existed. I know I can trust you to keep a still tongue.
I have your oath.'

' Yes, you have/ said Christopher Vane, not daring to
remonstrate with his friend, yet secretly uneasy about
this night's work. I suppose you'll leave the babe with
some of the dales-folk?' he suggested^ hesitatingly.

^ I have a scheme in my head,' said the older man.

They had by this time reached the valley, and the
speaker paused for a minute.

' Do you recollect the way to Length waite? ' he asked;
* over yonder and across the river.'

* Yes,' said Christopher; * I can find my way there if
the moon keeps clear.'

^ Then you go on and bid them prepare us the best
meal they can, with plenty of hot spiced ale, and in an
hour or two, when light breaks, we will take horse and
go over the Stake Pass.'

^ Where are you going now? ' said Christopher, un-
easily.

^ Only to dispose safely of this brat. I'll be with you
anon; and mind! not a word as to the child. We'll keep
a golden silence.'

So saying, he turned sharply to the right, while Chris-
topher Vane made his way slowly to Longthwaite Farm,
where their horses were stabled.

For some time the infant had made no sound what-
ever; it had, in fact, been violently jogged to sleep as
its father strode down the steep track from Watendlath.
Once it crossed his mind that perhaps it had been stifled

lo HOPE THE HERMIT

beneath his cloak. He paused in a little clearing where
the moonbeams pierced the trees^ and looked at it. In
the cold^ pale light the tiny face was like marble.
Surely the child was dead! He felt quite kindly towards
it for haying considerately relieved him from a piece of
work very little to his taste. But even as he looked a
smile flickered over the face of the sleeping child, and
it stirred a tiny yet vigorous-looking fist.

With a muttered curse the father flung the cloak over
it, and again strode on through lovely Borrowdale, with
its stately trees and craggy mountains and its river
gleaming like a silver thread in the moonlight.

'I ought to have hired some ruffian to do my dirty
work,^ he reflected. ^ Yet then there is always tiie risk
of betrayal. After all, if I christen the imp first it will
but translate him to Paradise. Fll get down by the
river as soon as may be. Old Father Francis once told
me that lay baptism was valid, but I'll warrant he never
thought of the baptizer drowning the child the next
minute.'

He laughed grimly, but there was, nevertheless, a sick
feeling at his heart; he shivered. It seemed to him that
the little unconscious babe was drawing out all his vital
heat, it lay so warm and peacefully on his arm.

Waging an uncomfortable debate within himself, he
strode on until he could see the outline of Castle Crag
just across the river, while not far from him on the
hillside to the right was the huge detached piece of rock
known by the dales-folk as the Bowder Stone. He must
go no further or, as he well knew, he should come within
sight of the tiny hamlet of Grange.

The piece of work he so cordially detested must be
done without any more delay. Quitting the rough mule
track, he bent his steps to the left and climbed down to
the riverside, depositing his burden on the grass, and
removing Lucy's mantle, which had been folded about

HOPE THE HERMIT ii

it. Boiling this into a tight bundle^ he hid it in the
hollow trunk of an old oak tree^ and paused for a minute
to remove from beneath his doublet a miniature which
hung there.

' Fd better throw this into the Derwent/ he reflected,
' or else bury it here. If Lucy's successor were to come
across it her jealousy would be up in arms, and she
would get at the whole truth by hook or by crook.'

In the moonlight he glanced for the last time at the
sweet, girlish face, and with a stifled sigh thrust the
miniature under a flat stone beside the oak, to the great
discomfiture of the ants beneath it. Then, lifting the
sleeping child once more, he stepped down to the water's
edge.

* What shall I name the imp? ' he thought. * It's a
matter of little moment. I will name him after the
river which is to carry him to Paradise.' And bending
down he sprinkled the child^s brow, hastily muttering
the words, ^ Derwent I baptize thee, in the name of the
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.'

He had hoped not to rouse his little son, but at the
first touch of the cold water the infant awoke; he could
have sworn that it looked up at him with Lucy's eyes —
that the tiny face of the new-bom babe was the face of
the wife he had neglected. Something in its helpless-
ness and innocence appealed to him strongly. He
cursed his own weakness, but he could not, as he had
intended, drown this little defenceless mortal.

' There are things a gentleman cannot put his hand
to,' he said to himself, with a soothing sense of his
innate refinement. ^ I cannot do it. I will only leave
him here by the river.'

And without any more delay he put the child down
on the wet grass at the foot of a silver birch tree, and
turned to go, pluming himself on his forbearance.

Like so many, he failed to see that it is often more

12 HOPE THE HERMIT

cruel for a parent to desert a child than to murder it
outright — ^that desertion is in fact, as a rule, only mur-
der long drawn out. Without once looking back, he
turned away to regain the mule track, when suddenly
he paused, rooted to the spot by overmastering terror.
What unearthly tumult was this which greeted him?
On the mountain-side, above the Bowder Stone, there
came the blood-curdling sound of that mysterious phan- )
tom hunt which he had heard of in his boyhood. The
^barfoot stag' had made its way through Watendlath
tarn, and was now plunging down in its headlong course
to Borrowdale. He could hear the awfid baying of the
phantom hounds and the rushing of many feet; nay,
there came a moment when he could hear the panting
of the stag close beside him. Then he could endure the
mystery of it no longer, but fled to Eosthwaite, running
the faster because a wailing, piteous voice rang in his
ears, and he knew that the phantom hunt must be
plunging into the Derwent at the very place where his
baby son lay helpless and forlorn.

CHAPTEB II

Now it chanced that the worthy owner of Isel Hall —
one Sir Wilfrid Lawson — ^who had great possessions in
Cumberland, and owned part of Borrowdale besides St.
Herbert's Isle on Derwentwater, had come to spend a
few weeks at his summer house on the island. He,
waking early and seeing that the day bid fair to be still
and cloudy — ^just such a day as Isaak Walton commends
to anglers — ordered his gillie to make ready the boat,
in which they rowed from St. Herbert's Isle, and the
water being high after much rain, made their way up
the river within sight of Grange Farm.

Having fastened the boat to an ash tree. Sir Wilfrid
in his fishing boots strode along the bank in the direc-
tion of Castle Crag, and had just landed his first trout
when Dickon, the gillie, came hurrying back with con-
sternation in his si^nburnt face. * Sir,' he said, * there's
a strange cratur over yonder — ^an uncanny cratur, that
makes a sound betwixt a lamb's bleat and the hootin'
of an owl.'

Sir Wilfrid laughed.

' Go and bring me this strange thing,' he said.

But Dickon hesitated.

^Weel, sir, the cratur's uncanny; maybe it would
bewitch us. I will fetch it, sir, if you order it — ^but —
I've no liking for bogles.'

' Come, come,' said the knight. ^ Who ever heard of
bogles after sunrise? I'll go and see the monster my-
self. Where is it?'

14 HOPE THE HEkMIT

Dickon^ glad to be quit of the duty of fetching this
strange thing, led the way a few hundred yards up the
river and pointed across to the further bank, where,
under a silver birch tree, was a white bundle which
certainly justified his description.

Sir Wilfrid strode across from boulder to boulder,
waded through the shallower part of the river, and
stepped on to the further shore. His companion, made
brave by his example, followed closely in his wake.

^ Why, God preserve us! ^ exclaimed the knight. ^ ^Tis
a new-bom babe, and some one must have deserted it
hours ago, for the poor brat is half dead with cold lying
in this heavy dew. Better have drowned it outright
than have left it to suffer like this.^

Dickon, ashamed of his fears, ventured now to pick
up the poor little mortal, whose wailing had chilled his
blood.

* This be no gips/s child, sir,^ he said. ^ See, its
swaddlin^ clothes be fine and soft.*

The knight looked perplexed. Had they been near
any high road he could have understood it; but a
deserted child in Borrowdale, where travellers hardly
ever ventured! This was a mystery indeed.

^Well, we can scarce hope to traok the parents,* he
said, ^and anyhow we must first carr}'^ this poor little
imp to some shelter. Perhaps Anne Fisher at Grange
Farm would see to it. She has an infant of her own.*

^Nay, sir; it died three days since, and I heard
Agnes say that her mother was to nurse Mistress Ead-
differs infant.*

^Well, carry it to Grange and let us see what can
be done,* said Sir Wilfrid. * We shall have it djring if
there*s much more delay. Of all cowardly deeds the
most cowardly is to bring a child into the world and
then to desert it. I wish I had the horsewhipping of its
father! *

HOPE THE HERMIT 15

They tramped back to Orange^ and the knight
knocked at the door of the snug farmhouse and told
the mistress of the discovery they had made. Anne
Fisher's sad face brightened with a gleam of amusement
as she glanced at awkward Dickon and the burden he
was bearing.

'Why, Dickon I' she said, 'you hold the babe face
down for all the world as if t were a pig. Give it to me.
Bless it's heart, it is half -starved with the cauld.*

She took it in her motherly arms, and, sitting down
by the kitchen fire, began to unfold the soft flannel and
fine linen in which it was swathed.

' Why, here is a ring, sir, tied aboot it,' she exclaimed.
' It's clear this child belongs to gentlefolks. And noo
I think o' it, Agnes did say that she saw two gentlemen,
foreigners to Borrowdale, riding from Keswick at dusk
yesterday.'

Su* Wilfrid looked at the ring, with its magnificent
sapphire ; then he read the posy and shrugged his
shoulders. He felt convinced that he should never un-
ravel the mystery, but being a practical and a most
kindly man he determined to do all that could be done
for the poor little waif whom he had rescued from a
lingering and painful death.

' Look here, Anne,' he said. ' If you will tend this
little imp for a while I will make myself responsible
for all charges that you are put to. Before long this
boy will be worth his salt. If he promises well I will
have him educated, and if he is a dunce — ^why, at the
worst he can be put to field work. Is that Mistress
Radcliffe's babe? I hear there is great disappointment
on Lord's Island that this posthumous child is a lassie.'

He bent down to glance at an infant which slept by
the hearth in a wooden cradle.

* Yes, sir; old Sir Nicholas Eadcliffe langed sair for a
grandson. Mrs. Radcliflfe has put the bam out to nurse

i6 HOPE THE HERMIT

for a year/ said Anne Fisher. ' And it^s glad I am to
have her now that my own babe is taken. As for this
little one, FU do my best for him, sir; you may trust me.'

' Ay, I would trust you, Anne, sooner than any woman
in the world,' said Sir Wilfrid, with a glance at the
strong, quiet face, with its look of motherly patience
and tenderness. ^I go back to Isel to-day, but by
Michaelmas I shall be over again for the shooting, and
will come and see how this little imp thrives.'

Bidding her good-day he left the farm, and Anne,
haying warmed and fed and washed her little charge,
laid him in the cradle by the tiny descendant of the
Derwentwaters, little dreaming that, while the one by
her sex had failed to inherit the coveted property, the
other had been disinherited and deserted by the cruel
caprice of his own father.

Supremely indifferent to all this, however, the two
little mortals lay cosily beside the hearth in the farm-
house kitchen, and Anne Fisher rocked the cradle and
sang to comfort her own sad heart one of the old
metrical psalms:

Unto the righteous doth arise

In trouble joy, in darknesse light :
Compassion is in his eyes,
And mercy alwaies in his sight :
Tea, pitie moveth such to lend,
He doth by judgment things expend.

And surely such shall never faile,
For in remembrance had is he,
No tidings ill can make him quaile.
Who in the Lord sure hope doth see.
His lieart is firm, his feare is past,
For he shall see his foes down cast.

True to his word. Sir Wilfrid Lawson visited the farm
again at Michaelmas, bringing with him this time his

(

HOPE THE HERMIT 17

wife. Beyond the fact that two strange gentlemen had
rested their horses at Longthwaite Farm the night be-
fore the discovery of the child^ nothing had transpired.
Up at Watendlath they were busy with the harvest, and
then Mary Wilson had been ill, and though her husband
had certainly been down to Keswick Market he was a
man who had a wonderful gift of silence, and when he
did open his lips it was to discourse of crops and to
grumble at the weather.

^ Has the child been baptized yet? * asked Lady Law-
son, who took very kindly to the pretty little unknown
babe.

' No, ma'am, but Mistress Radcliffe's is to be chris-
tened at Crosthwaite Church to-morrow mom, and may-
be Fd better take the little lad, too. What is he to be
called, sir? ^

^ Poor little imp, I doubt he has no surname,' said the
knight. ^We had better call him after the river — itV
there we found him; as for his Christian name — since he
is to be christened at Michaelmas — let him be called
Michael, and you and I, my dear, will be sponsors.'

Lady Lawson assented, and held the little babe ten-
derly enough in her motherly arms the next day in
Crosthwaite Church. At the last moment there was a
hue and cry for a second godfather, the parish clerk
sturdily refusing to add to his already large number
of godchildren.

' Fd do it for a parishioner,' he said, ^ but at foreigners
I draw the line; a parish clerk must draw the line some-
where.'

At that there stepped forward a curious-looking man,

with an enormous forehead and a bush of flaxen hair.

It was the Keswick fiddler — ^usually known as Sebastian

Snoggles — ^though, as he was apt to inform the good

Cumbrians, his name was not that at all, but Zinogle.

His grandfather had been one of the miners who came
3

i8 HOPE THE HERMIT

over from Germany in Queen Elizabeth^s days to work
the copper mines now closed^ and ^ Snoggles ^ was a
popular person in all the country round because — al-
though a ^Dutchman* — ^he played divinely on the fiddle.

* I^m ready to stand sponsor/ he said, with a twinkle
in his blue eyes. ' I*m not one myself to draw the line
at foreigners.^

And the little discussion being over, the ceremony
proceeded, and Michael the foundling, and Audrey, the
youngest member of the Keswick branch of the Der-
wentwaters, were enrolled in the Christian army.

CHAPTER in

Beeotteetions of Michael Dtrwent; Begun in thie month of
August, Anno Domini 16S7, at Chriefs CoUege^ Cambridge,

A SEN^ifiGHT since there came to me here at Cam-
bridge a fellow who had lain at Isel Hall and had been
charged with messages to me by Sir Wilfrid Lawson.
Lady Lawson^ who had always shown me great kindness^
sent me sundry gifts welcome enough to a poor sizar
who likes very ill to go shabby about the world, and in
the parcel, to my great content, was enclosed another
smaller packet directed in Audrey Eadcliffe's irregular
writing and indifferent spelling. As I hastily unfolded
the paper I saw two pair of most well-knit socks, with
sprigs of lavender laid between them; and with the smell
there seemed to rise before me a vision of the pleasance
on Lord's Island, and of my playmate and foster-sister,
and the world felt to me a better place, just because she
was in it, and because she took thought for me and
my needs.

A student left alone at Cambridge in the Long Vaca-
tion is apt to mope like an owl by day, and in the drowsy,
enervating heat of the summer noon I found myself
consumed with longing for the old days at Borrowdale,
climbing once more in imagination Scafell and Great
Gable, and roaming with Audrey along the shores of
Derwentwater. To wake from those dreams of the past
to the deathly quiet of Cambridge in August was dreary
enough; to trudge alone over that desolate, fiat coimtr}'

20 HOPE THE HERMIT

only made me more homesick for the mountains of my
own north country, while to look out into the grey quad
of Chriet'e, where not a' single man was left to bear me
company, made me at times well-nigh desperate.

One day, when thoughts of Audrey had haunted me
more incessantly than ever, it came into my head that I
would write down some of the recollections of our child-
hood, and no sooner had I taken pen and paper in hand
than I found a sort of companionship in the notion, and
what with writing and remembering and living over
again the old days I passed the time indifferent well.

My earliest recollection is a strange one. It is of the
landing-place at Lowdore, not far from the mill. Old
Zinogle was beside me with his fiddle, and we stood
watching a boat and measuring with our eyes the
swiftly-increasing space between it and the bank. Some
of the Lord's Island servants were in the boat, and
beside them sat Audrey, a plump, jolly little child of
three, much excited at the long-deferred home-going,
and chatting fast to her companions, yet ever and anon
turning to wave farewells to me. I can remember now
the horrid way in which the boat dwindled and dwindled
till it was a mere speck in the distance, and then I flung
myself down upon the grass and sobbed, for Borrowdale
felt as desolate as a wilderness.

Zinogle and the miller talked together; the old fiddler
said it was cruel to part us when we were just like sweet-
hearts. I had no idea what the word meant, but his
tone was sympathetic and comforting.

The miller, on the other hand, argued that it was not
to be expected that Mrs. Kadcliffe would let her daughter
be any longer with a brat that had neither father nor
mother, but had just been picked up under a bush.

He had a slow, drawling voice, and his words made a
deep impression on me. When he was gone I asked my
old friend the fiddler a question.

HOPE THE HERMIT «l

' Snoggles/ I Baid^ hiding my wet face on his shaggy
beard^ ^ was it wrong of me to be picked up under a
bush?^

'Why^ no^ my laddie/ he said^ gathering me up in
his strong arms^ and laughing. ^But very wrong of
them that left ye there; and when ye grow to be a man,
laddie, I should set off like Jack in the fairy tale and
find them that did ye that wrong. I hope to God ye'U
hae your rights yet. Often enoo \ is the grey dawn
that brings the fine day. So don't forget to hope, laddie.
Hope maun be your guiding star through life.*

Luckily for me, Lord's Island did not suit Audrey
well, or perhaps she pined for companionship. At any
rate, it happened that she was constantly being sent
back to Orange Farm; so that practically we grew up
together, belonging to each other from the very first.
As for Anne Fisher, she was as happy as I was when
Audrey returned, and I overheard her once saying to
the servant who had come from the island that the
children did each other a ' mort o' good,' that the boy
made the girl brave, and the girl made the boy gentle.
There was certainly truth in the last notion, for nobody
could have been rough with one like Audrey; and
though she was as brave as any one could have desired,
she was none of your stuck-up, independent lasses, but
from the first loved to have a stronger hand to help her
in climbing as we roamed about the hills and scrambled
about the crags.

Li those days I think we learned to know every inch
of the fells. We would play at Cavaliers and Round-
heads by the hour together, and many were the hiding-
places in which distressed fugitives found shelter from
imaginary pursuers. There was what we called the
Steeple Eock on Orange Fell, where actually in sight
of tie farm we could hide in a narrow little cleft; and
there was the wood in what we called the Happy Valley,

\

22 HOPE THE HERMIT

a tiny, unfrequented gully among the hills, where be-
neath an old yew tree was a sheltered recess, which we
considered our most secure retreat. But, perhaps, our
favourite expedition was a long scramble up to high
Lowdore, where in a V-shaped opening between Shep-
herd^s Crag and Gowder Crag one could catch a lovely
glimpse of Skiddaw and of Derwentwater, with its
islands like little green dots on a silver shield. I
remember there was a hiding-place not far from here
in the woods betwixt Lowdore and Ashness Farm. We
called it the quarry, and often made our hunted patriots
take shelter there. But to no one did we ever reveal
these secrets, but treasured them up as possessions of our
very own, fully believing that some day we might need
them ourselves. And what would be the good of a
secret hiding-place if all Borrowdale knew of it?

In the evenings Anne would sometimes be persuaded
into telling us of the Borrowdale bogle. She had not
seen it herself, but her daughter Agnes had seen it and
would never speak to us on the subject, looking scared
if the very word bogle was spoken in her presence.

This ghost was a far-away kinsman of Audrey's — ^a
Kadcliffe, but which of the many branches I never
clearly understood.

The story ran that when in the time of the Civil War
St. Herbert's Isle had been garrisoned for the Parlia-
ment, some wag thought to amuse himself at the expense
of one of the Royalist defenders of Carlisle Castle, Eob-
ert Phillipson, and persuaded him that the custodian
of St. Herbert's Island was a traitor and would yield
up his valuable store of ammunition. Accordingly
Anne told us that Mr. Phillipson sallied forth one night
from Carlisle, cut his way through the lines besieging
the castle, and with a strong party of men rode up to
Gat Bells. But then he found that it was all a hoax;
every boat was drawn up upon the island, and when he

HOPE THE HERMIT a3

summoned the St. Herbert^s garrison to surrender he
was only greeted with shouts of derisive laughter. He
had had a useless ride of sixty miles! Afterwards he
went to Keswick, where his men refreshed themselves,
while he in great dudgeon visited Sir Edward Radeliflfe
on Lord's Island and told him and the garrison there of
the way in which the Parliamentarians had hoaxed him.
It chanced that one of the many Radcliffe cousins,
named James, was present, and he vowed that he would
be revenged on the perpetrators of the joke. A few
days later a young officer from St. Herbert's Isle was
returning from a day's shooting, and as he strode along,
his servant following with the birds, who should appear
from among the trees near their boat but James Rad-
eliflfe. With many bitter words he challenged the
officer, and a duel was fought by the water's side, and in
this way James Radeliflfe met with his death, and ever
since his ghost has haunted the neighbourhood, being
seen by many both in Grange and Borrowdale, and on
the fells and in the woods round Derwentwater, whence
it happens that nobody cares to go out after dark, since to
meet a ghost is enough to make even a brave man recoil.

It was well enough to hear Anne tell the tale as we sat
by the hearth near the glowing logs, but it was not so
pleasant when we had to go up to bed in the dark rooms
above, and to pass the great carved oak chest in the
passage, in which it seemed always so likely that ghosts
would hide! Audrey used to pant like a hunted stag as
we ran up the stairs hand in hand, but though I was
scared^ too, I am sure I would have bucklered her against
a thousand bogles, for there was nothing that heartened
me so much as to feel her grip tight hold of my hand as
though she had faith in my strength.

I must have been about ten years old when I first
went, at Sir Wilfrid Lawson's request, to keep Christmas
at Isel Hall; my patron wished to see what progress I

24 HOPE THE HERMIT

had made since I had been a scholar at the Keswick
High School, and Zinogle, who was needed to play his
fiddle at a dance, took me over with him. By the time
we reached Cockermonth we were very weary, and glad
enough to dine at one of the inns in the little town.

Afterwards Zinogle dropped asleep over his pipe,
while I, eager to be off once more, strolled out to the
open door, and stood watching the busy throng of people
in the street. All at once there rose in the distance a
most curious noise; every moment it grew louder. It
seemed to me the most awful sound I had ever heard,
and for a moment I shook in my shoes, thinking that
the day of judgment had come, and that all the fiends
in hell were hastening to seize and drag down their
victims to perdition. It comforted me greatly to see
that the landlord, in spite of his fiery nose and shaking
hands and the other tokens he gave of being a drunkard,
did not manifest the least alarm; clearly it could not be
the Last Day.

' Is it a wild beast show? ^ I asked, cheering up. ' Are
those lions and bears roaring? ^ for I had heard Zinogle
describe how he once met a travelling show, and had
always longed to come across one. The landlord laughed
till the tears ran down his bloated face. ^ Beasts roar-
ing! ^ he said. ^ Why, no, laddie; those be the worthy
inhabitants of this town hounding down the pestilent
knaves called Quakers.^

I was greatly disappointed. To have seen lions and
bears would have been an event worth living for; but
who cared to see these eccentric preachers? Why, even
so kind-hearted a man as Sir Wilfrid called them a most
dangerous sect. I had heard him say as much once
when he was in Keswick. Still, there was comfort in
knowing that it was not the Last Day.

And now the shouting and jeering and groaning grew
louder and louder, and a great crowd came into sight.

HOPE THE HERMIT 25

I scrambled up on to a window-sill to see the better, and
was much, surprised to find that these dangerous folk
were nouglit but some peaceable-looking men and
women, and my blood began to boil to see them so de-
fenceless in the midst of the rude, bawling throng.

Thonghi they were pushed and goaded and driven like
beasts amid blows and curses, they made no show vhat-
eyer of resistance. Even the women, when their hoods
and scarves were torn off them by the rabble, showed
never a sign of anger, but went calmly on, for this, I
learnt afterwards, was part of their creed.

I doubt if there is any feeling more deeply rooted in
the hearts of most English folk than the instinct that
makes us rush to the help of the ill-used and weak. The
Quakers suffered chiefly because a wave of panic was
sweeping through the land, and men became cruel be-
cause they feared; but they were also unpopular because
they spoke plainly against many vested interests. Our
landlord, for instance, was one of the foremost in throw-
ing mud and stones at them. But when I caught sight
of a brutal fellow striding along, repeatedly striking
with his stick the bald head of one of the Quakers until
the blood streamed down, a sort of fiery strength sud-
denly possessed me. From the vantage-ground of the
window-sill I snatched at the stick, wrenched it out of
the felloVs hand, and dropped it down the grating
beneath the window.

The face of the Quaker lit up for a moment with an
expression which I can never forget, but the next in-
stant the owner of the stick had caught me by the hair
of the head, and with oaths and blows had flung me with
all his force on to the doorstep of the inn. ^ After all,
it is my last day,^ I thought in the curious moment of
reflection for which there always seems time during a
fall. Then came a crash, and I knew no more till I
woke up on Zinogle^s knee.

26 HOPE* THE HERMIT

^ Are you better, sonny? ^ he asked, kindly, and I sat
up, but turned deadly sick, and was glad to fall back
once more on the old fiddler's breast.

' You're a blessed young fool to help scum like that,'
said the landlord, contemptuously — ^ folks as won't take
their Bible oath as all decent Christians do.'

'What has become of the man with the bald head?'
I asked.

' Well, I reckon you saved him from many a blow of
Bully Barton's stick,' said Zinogle, in his comforting
voice. 'And, strangely enough, he be a EadcliflEe.
There be Catholic Eadcliffes an' Church of England
Radcliffes, and now there be this Quaker Radcliffe. And
I will say for them that they all know how to suffer
for their faith, and that's more'n can be said for some
folk.'

It was now high time to go on our way, and having
washed my face and hands at the pump in the backyard,
and sleeked down my wet hair over my forehead so that
the worst of the bruises was hidden, I set off with
Zinogle, feeling very shaky about the knees.

' I whope you've learnt your lesson,' said the landlord
in a patronising tone; ' you'll hae mony a sair head, I'm
thinking, if ye go aboot the worid interfering with the
course of justice.'

'But it was not justice,' I thought to myself, and
trudged on doggedly, hardly daring to think how many
miles still lay betwixt us and Isel Hall.

We had only just gained the outskiri:s of the town
when we were hailed by a farmer who was driving
home from market. He had a broad, honest, cheerful
face that made me think of a withered but still rosy
apple.

' Why, Snoggles! ' he cried, heari;ily, ' so you're shep-
herding the laddie that snatched Bully Barton's stick
from him. Ari: going to Isel, man? '

HOPE THE HERMIT %7

' Ay/ said Zinogle, ' if Bully Barton has left breath
enough in this little imp's body/

' rU gie ye a lift/ said the farmer; ' put the laddie
up betwixt us. But/ with a sly wink at me, ^ ye mustna
be takin' awa my whip if I touch up Brown Bess now
and agin/

I shall never forget the relief of that unexpected end-
ing to our journey. Dear old Snoggles threw his arm
about me, and Farmer Birkett wrapped me in a horse-
cloth, and in two minutes, what with the gathering
gloom and the cold air and the monotonous jogging of
the cart, I was sound asleep. By the time we reached
Isel the moon was shining, and I can dimly remember
my first sleepy view of that grand old mansion, with its
battlemented walls and its pele tower. I wished we
could have driven on in the cart for ever. However,
Parmer Birkett patted me on the shoulder and wished
me good-night and good luck, and Zinogle led me into
the house, where we were taken to a large room with
curious panelling round the walls and a blazing fire of
logs, beside which sat my patron and his lady.

' Why, heaven help us! what has befallen the child? *
cried my Lady Lawson.

Whereupon Zinogle gave a graphic account of what
had passed at Cockermouth, and I stood by trembling,
for I well knew that Sir Wilfrid detested the Quakers.

' Come here, boy,' he said when Zinogle paused, and I
stepped swiftly up to him, much as one steps towards the
schoolmaster for a stroke of the cane, caring only to get
it over quickly and not to flinch. He lifted his hand
and raised the hair from my forehead as gently as a
woman could have done it; there was a kindly twinkle
in his bright eyes.

' So thou couldst not brook seeing Bully Barton beat
a Quaker,* he said, ^ and did snatch his stick from him.*
At that he laughed right out, for as I learnt afterwards

28 HOPE THE HERMIT

this Barton was a notorious character and much, addicted
to prize-fighting, so that it seemed mere midsummer
madness for a child of ten years to provoke him.

* The Quaker did not strike back again, sir,^ I pleaded
in excuse, * and somebody had to try and help him, else
he might have been killed/

^ I am not blaming you,* said Sir Wilfrid. * Nay, I
like you the better for it. Nevertheless your friend
with the bald head will have to stay in prison, and I
shall do my utmost to put down this sect, for I consider
that it is a danger to the State. There, go get your
supper, and good-night to you. If you mean to cham-
pion every ill-used mortal you come across you^l not
find this world a bed of roses.*

It must have been soon after my return from this
visit that one afternoon Mrs. Eadcliflfe invited a few
children from the neighbourhood to play with her
daughter. There were two or three of the Eadcliffe
kinsfolk and the Brownriggs of Millbeck Hall, and after
thawing our shyness with ^ Hoodman Blind * some one
proposed a game of ^ All Hid.* It fell about that Audrey
and I were to hide together, and as we were searching
about for a good place in the little room above the porch
we looked into a large old chest which stood against the
wall.

^Let us get in here,* I suggested. 'Why, how the
thing smells! It is just as though a candle had been
blown out in it.*

Audrey scrambled in, but her attention was at once
drawn to an iron ring let into the floor of the chest.
She showed it to me, and we wondered that we had
never noticed it before.

' What can be the good of it? * I said, and, bending
down, began to tug at the ring, for no special reason,
but just from curiosity.

' Why, a bit of the floor lifts up! * cried Audrey, and

HOPE THE HERMIT 99

then^ as with much exertion I raised the square piece of
wood to which the ring was fastened^ we both started
back with exclamations of horror, for just below, quite
clearly to be seen, was the head of a bald old man.

' It^s a robber! ^ cried Audrey, turning as white as a
sheet and gripping hold of my arm; as for me, I was
dumb with dismay, but seeing the terror in the face of
this imexpected visitor, my courage began to return.

'For God^s sake,* he cried, ^do not raise an alarm.
Sir Nicholas knows I am here in the secret hiding-place.
He himself put me here, and if another soul learns of it
my life will be in danger.*

* Are you a Quaker? ' I asked, thinking of my Cock-
ermouth friend, and with some foolish connection in my
mind betwixt bald heads and persecuted devotees.

He smiled involuntarily at the question.

' Nay, I am a Catholic priest, and in telling you the
truth I put my life in your hands, for they hunt us as
though we were wild beasts. I beg you to speak of this
to no one but to Sir Nicholas.*

We both solemnly promised to keep his secret, and
then shut him down once more in the hiding-place
which, till that day, had been utterly unknown to any
one in the house save to Sir Nicholas and to one of the
old servants. Then we prudently chose another room
for our hiding-place in the game, but took scant interest
in it, and were qnicHy discovered.

* What a stupid place! * said Henry Brownrigg, a boy
some years my senior, who played with us in an un-
gracious and patronising fashion. ^You were so long
gone, too, that you might have done better than just
creep behind curtains. Hide with me, Audrey, and you
will see it will go- much better. Are there no sliding
panels in this house? I expect you have two or three
priests* holes, as they call them. Come now, haven't
you?'

30 HOPE THE HERMIT

Audrey had turned crimson; in another minute she
would have cried.

' It is not a good house for All Hid/ I said, quickly.
' Let us come to the garret and dress up in the put-away
clothes there; when the lamps are lighted we^ll play the
mummers in the hall/

This idea was popular with everybody, and we
skurried upstairs Hke rabbits, Audrey giving me a grate-
ful little nod of acknowledgment for having tided her
over her difficulty.

We heard no more of the hunted priest; but not very
long after another Catholic friend of Sir Nicholas Ead-
cliflfe^s became a permanent member of the Lord's Island
household.

This was Mr. Noel, a gentleman who helped Sir
Nicholas in the management of his estate, and acted as
tutor, first to Audrey, and eventually to me also. I
think in our hearts we children knew from the first
that he was a priest in disguise. The persecution of the
Catholics was very bitter just then owing to the revela-
tions of Dr. Titus Gates; and Mrs. Badcliffe, who be-
longed to the Church of England, told us that Sir
Nicholas himself might have run some danger of im-
prisonment had he not lived so peaceful and inoflfensive
a life. In truth he was too much of an invalid to leave
the island, and no one could suspect him of having any
part in the Popish plot which was the talk of the
land.

And here I should like to say that however much Mr.
NoeFs opinions may have been wrong, his presence at
Lord's Island was a capital thing for all of us. He was
an excellent teacher, and I always found him a mosfc
kind friend; he, too, like dear old Zinogle, always urged
me to work and to hope, and thousrh, for aught I can
see, nothing lies before me but to become secretary to
Sir Wilfrid Lawson, I still buoy myself up with the

HOPE THE HERMIT 31

hope of one day finding that I have an honest name of
my own^ and kith and kin to care what befalls me.

Nothing can be foreseen with certainty in these
strange times; and whereas in our childhood the Papists
were glad to hide from the fury of the storm, now they
are become most deadly tyrants, and His Majesty is
trying to force the Fellows of Magdalene at Oxford to
violate their statutes and their oaths, and men say he
intends to turn the college into a Popish seminary.
Law being thus wholly set aside, no clergyman through-
out the land feels secure in his benefice, it being well
known that King James abhors the English Church,
and in ejecting the clergy would not even grant that
third part of the income which the Puritans granted
them when they were ejected in the Civil War.

However, I have yet another year at Cambridge, and
much may happen in this changeful world before I
again see Borrowdale and my friends on Lord's Island.

t*

CHAPTEE IV

The passing years produced wonderfully little change
in Zinogle the fiddler. He had never looked young,
and now at sixty he did not look old. His flaxen hair
might have had a grey thread or two, perhaps, and Ms
face was more deeply lined, but otherwise he looked
much as he had done that Michaelmas day in Cros-
thwaite Church, as, twenty years later, he wandered
along the wooded shore of Lord^s Island. His fiddle
was tucked under his arm, and his keen blue eyes, with
their irresistible humour, their twinkling merriment,
took little heed of the lovely view to the west, where
the autumn sunset was already mellowing the sky and
throwing a gleam of glory over j^he mountains.

Zinogle was not thinking of sunsets, he was thinking
how amusing the world can be to a spectator, the little
passing world of men, with their strange makeshifts,
their subtle plans, their mixed motives. ^ Potztausend!
— ^^tis a queer world, a most queer, topsy-turvy world! '
he cried, laughing at his thoughts. ^ I fiddle to-night
for old Sir Nicholas Eadcliflfe, the Papist, who this year
is in the ascendant, though he had to lie low when the
plot was the talk of the land. And now it^s Sir John
Lowther who is shaking in his shoes, and praying night
and morning for a Protestant wind to save him from
the scaflfold he sees in the future. A mad world, my
masters — a most mad world! Ha! here comes pretty
Mistress Audrey, who, methinks, cares little for the
wrangling between parties in the State, but loves her

■i:l

HOPE THE HERMIT 33

Papist grandfather and her Protestant mother alike,
tnd expects them to agree in heaven, but not before,
ike a sensible lass/

* What! Zinoglel ' cried a clear, fresh voice close by.

And the next moment a young girl, dressed in wUte
md wearing a wreath of mountain-ash berries and
Dracken in her nut-brown hair, stepped out from among
the trees and eagerly greeted the fiddler. * Have you
seen Michael? Has he come?' she asked, eagerly.

' Ay, ay,' said the old German. ^ He rode over from
Isel Hall yesterday, and will be here anon. Quite a
man he's grown since last he was here. Not that he's
so tall, neither, as one might expect. I reckon he has
had to rough it at Cambridge, where, according to him,
sizars don't have an easy time. But though he's but a
stripling there's just the old spirit that made him ever
the foremost to be after the eagles on Olaramara.'

' Ah, yes, to be sure,' said Audrey, gaily. * How well
I remember seeing him lowered over the crags by a rope,
and how Anne Fisher and I could hear our hearts
thumping as we watched him. We were very happy as
children together in Borrowdale! I wish the dear old
times would return again.'

^Why, Mistress Audrey, that's for an old man like
me to say, not for a young maid with the best of life
before her.'

He looked meditatively at the sweet, thoughtful face,
with its delicate outline and fair colouring, its great
wistful grey eyes shaded by black lashes, and the rich
brown curls touched with a golden glory where the sun
glinted on them.

^N"ow, Zinogle, how stupid you are,' she said, laughing.
*It's exactly because all my life is before me, and be-
cause things are perplexing and the future uncertain,
that I want the old times back. When we were children
together we were as happy as the day is long. What did
8

34 HOPE THE HERMIT

we know of factions and disputes? What did money
signify, or rank, or creed? As to the future, it troubled
us not at all. We never thought about it, but enjoyed
every day as it came/

* And why not now? ' asked Zinogle, thrumming his
strings.

' Why not? * she asked, hesitatingly. ^ Why, because
things happen so contrarily, and thoughts will come
troubling, whether we want them or not/

For answer Zinogle drew his bow across the strings,
and to a fantastic accompaniment, and in the most
mirth-provoking fashion, sang a verse of ^ Begone, dull
care.*

Merely to look at his face as he sang was irresistible,
and Audrey^s laughter rang through the wood.

' If I only had you always at hand, Zinogle, I should
never be in the dumps,' she said, merrily.

' Maybe,' said Zinogle, hugely pleased with her com-
pliment; ^ but there is always an " if only '' with all of
us. If only I could have a good tankard of home-
brewed now I could have sung that more musically.'

'Then go to the house and get it,' said Audrey,
blithely. ^ But come back again; don't forget to come
back.'

' What a funny old fellow he is! ' she said to herself.
' He is quite right, I ought to be happy enough to-day;
here's my foster-brother come back after his long
absence, and to-night there will be the tenants' merry-
making in the hall, and all the Hallowe'en sports, and
Henry Brownrigg and his sister coming to see the fun.
I'm afraid Michael will not be over-glad to see them,
for in old days he never did like the Brownriggs; they
never seem to forget that he is a foundling, though,
after all, it's no shame to him. Michael was always too
ready to mind being laughed at. He seemed to feel a
sneer as other people feel a blow. Ah! there's a boat

HOPE THE HERMIT 35

across from St. Herbert^s Isle! Michael must
ing!'
started up from the log on which she had been

and ran down to the water^s edge, her face
\ up radiantly as she recognised her old plajrmate.
hael! ' she cried, in her clear voice, fearful lest
lid go to the chief landing-stage. The rower

round, waved his hat in greeting, and hastily
to the little creek on the island close to which
; standing.

)gle told me you were here,^ she said, as he sprang
e and caught her hand in his. * He told me of
i he told me of the periwig. It is well I was
ued, or I should have been afraid of so fine a
lan. Welcome to Lord's Island, sir,' and she
lim a mocking curtsey, to which he responded
ofound bow.

lam, your humble servant,' he said, with a smile
[uite disguised his secret nervousness,
most noticeable thing about him were his eyes,
vrere extraordinarily bright, and of that golden
^hich makes one think of sunlight on a mountain
For the rest his well-cut features and rather
ice seemed to be of the Welsh type, and though
id athletic, he was neither tall nor particularly
looking, but had a resolute expression bespeaking
owers of endurance.

er all, save for the periwig, I don't think you are
Itered,' said Audrey, gaily, ^ and you have grown
ous silent. There's a great change there; has
dge cultivated your brain at the expense of your

>

he words of the riddle it's only tongue and brains
ake the best dish for conversation,' he replied,
laugh. * Cambridge is not to be blamed, but
he spell of this place and the change in you.'

36 HOPE THE HERMIT

* What! ' she cried, with a roguish little glance, * hav^
I turned into a Gorgon during your absence, and do E
now freeze you into silence? In what, pray, am I
changed?*

^ You are a thousand times more beautif xd,* he said,
in a voice so low and reverent that it seemed like an act
of worship. But Audrey failed to catch its significance;
he was to her nothing but her old comrade, and people
are seldom very observant under those circumstances.

^ They teach you to make compliments at Cambridge/
she said, laughing — ^ a very dangerous practice, let me
tell you, sir, and not to be tolerated from a foster-
brother. We two, at any rate, will speak the tmtli
together. Come! * — she slipped her hand into his as she
would have done years ago— ^ let us sit down here for a
while and chat; there are many things I want to hear
and to tell.*

Michael had winced involuntarily at the word brother;
he could hardly tell whether it was pleasure or torture
to him to feel her hand resting so carelessly in his; but
they walked together to the fallen tree, and there sat
talking in friendly fashion.

'And so your Cambridge days are over,* she said.
' And Zinogle tells me you found the life of a sizar a
rough one.*

' It was what my life is like to prove from beginning'
to end,* he said. ' One of uncertain position, one which-
must be always looked down on and held in contempt-
As for the menial part of the work that fell to me, E
cared nothing about that. It was honest labour, anl
there was no disgrace in it; but the thing which gallel
one was the contempt of other men whose lot chanced to
be happier.*

Audrey^s face had grown thoughtful and tender. Her
thoughts flew back to a time when Michael had been,
a daily scholar at the Keswick High School, founded in

HOPE THE HERMIT 37

the days of the Tudors^and she remembered how Zinogle
the fiddler had once brought him to Lord's Island, more
dead than alive, after fighting Henry Brownrigg, a boy
nearly twice his size.

' Why did you fight him? ' her mother had asked as
she bathed his face.

'He called me base-bom/ replied Michael, with an
indignation which had made a deep impression on his
little foster-sister. And from that day forward there
had always been a sort of feud between Michael and
his antagonist, though of late years they had seen noth-
ing of each other.

' I suppose Anne Fisher really knows no more than
what she always told us as children? ' said Audrey.

' No, I questioned her only yesterday, and Sir Wilfrid
and Dickon, the gillie, did their utmost to trace things
out at the time, but failed.'

* Then why trouble any more about it? ' said Audrey;
' after all, what does it matter? " What's in a name? "
as the bard of Avon sings.'

' All the diflference betwixt honour and dishonour at

times,' said Michael, with a sigh. ^ This ring ^- he

took off the sapphire ring he was wearing and glanced
at the posy inscribed on it; ' this ring may be clear proof
to my own mind that my mother was wedded, but it is
no legal proof whatever.'

' For my part,' said Audrey, holding out her hand for
the ring and looking at it attentively, ' I could weave a
whole romance out of this. They were good and God-
fearing people, your parents, else wherefore this motto,
and some treacherous servant, out of spite, made away
with you on the death of your mother; your father was
away from home, and either believed that you had died
at your birth or else learnt something of the truth and
still searches all England for you. Then the wicked
nurse who had hoped to get him into her power and to

m

h

38 //0P£ THE HERMIT

step into the place of her late mistress^ and win the tie
estate for her children, pined away and came to a miser- 'tie
able end, as the covetors of land and money always do. p.
Did you never hear the tale of my great-aunt Isa-
bella?^

^ Who was she?*

* I never saw her, she died six years ago, and had long
been bedridden. You must have heard of my great-
uncle Eadcliflfe, a younger brother of my grandfather's.
Well, the story goes, no sooner was I born and great-
uncle Eadcliffe became heir to the estate — ^not this
island, which belongs, of course, to the Eadcliflfes of
Dilston, but heir to Goldrill, near Ulleswater, this fair
Lady Isabella, who for some reason had ever coveted L
the estate, straightway consented to wed my great-uncle; it
and there was born to them a most lovely child, a son,
who was the delight of both father and mother. . When
this child was but three years old he fell into the beck
which runs past the house, and his mother saw his peril
and tried to save him but could not; and the terrible
sight of his death wholly shattered her health, poor
lady.*

^Have you ever seen your great-uncle?*

^ I have no remembrance of him,* said Audrey. ^ After
the death of his son he lived in London, and at the time
of the so-called Popish plot he was for long in prison
and in peril of his life, although he was innocent
enough, like many others in those times who fell victims
to that false-tongued Dr. Titus Gates.*

^ Have a care,* said Michael; ^ it is not always safe to
denounce Dr. Gates even yet. There are some that
would take you for a Papist an you spoke like that.
Here comes Zinogle. Any news to-day in Keswick,
Zinogle?*

' Why yes, sir, there has come news that the Prince
of Orange set sail last week, but after two days at sea

HOPE THE HERMIT 39

Was driyen back by reason of a great tempest. And
they do say that Sir John Lowther is in the dumps, and
prays night and day for a Protestant wind/

' ^Tis like enough/ said Michael. ^ For if the Prince
does not come to deliver ns from the king^s tyranny he
will pay dearly for his expedition the other night.*

* Is it, then, really true that Sir John armed his
tenants?* asked Audrey. *My mother heard some
humour of it, but in our divided household we seldom
learn the truth of things.*

' Tell it not in Gath, but I was in the expedition

myself,* said Michael, his face lighting up. * By great

good fortune Sir Wilfrid had sent me over to Sir John

IjOwther*s with important papers for his perusal. And

it so chanced that Andrew Huddleston, of Hutton John,

brought word to the Lowthers that a ship would arrive

at Workington laden with arms and ammunition for the

popish garrison at Carlisle. Then there was such a

mustering of the tenants as it would have done your

heart good to see, and we were marched by night to the

coast, and forced the vessel to surrender. That was the

first act of the drama, but the second act does not

prosper so well. Of course, the Prince of Orange should

have been here by now, but thanks to contrary winds he

is yet in Holland.*

^ I care not whether he comes or no, so that they do
Hot molest my grandfather,* said Audrey.

^No one would molest him,* said Michael, warmly.
'They say, moreover, that the Prince of Orange is tol-
erant and just, and a Papist who lives in peace with his
neighbours, and seeks not to meddle with the liberties
of Eng^lishmen, is not likely to be in any peril.*

* Perhaps not, yet I would that Dr. Gates were safely
out of the way,* said Audrey. Then, as Zinogle wandered
away playing Lis favourite air, Lady Frances NevilVs
Delight, she said, lowering her voice, ^ Can you ever

40 HOPE THE HERMIT

forget that poor old priest we suddenly came upon in
the secret hiding-place? ^

^ No/ said Michael. ^ What awful terror there was in
his face when we suddenly unearthed him in our game
of All Hid. It was well for him we were the children,
and not any of the Brownrigg clan; they would certainly
have hetrayed him, and brought trouble on your grand-
father, and perhaps death to the refugee.^

^ It was well that he let us tell my grandfather, other-
wise I could never have borne it/ said Audrey. ^ And do
you know, Michael, I believe it was your courage and
your silence that day that first made my grandfather
take so kindly to you. He always speaks of you with
respect.^

* I wonder what became of the priest? ^ said Michael.
'I asked my grandfather not long since. He said

that he escaped the following day, and went over to
Ireland, and then, I think, to France. He is alive now,
but where I donH know. What should you do in a like
case now that you are a man? Should you harbour a
Papist?'

^ That would depend on the sort of man he proved to
be. Such an one as Sir Nicholas Eadcliflfe I would
most certainly shield and protect had I the chance, but
for the lying scoundrels who would bring free English-
men under the thraldom of Eome, why I would not lift a
finger to help them. As for Sir Nicholas, he is one of
the best men living, and diflferences of creed come not to
one's mind when speaking with him.'

* There is the bell ringing to summon us to the merry-
making,' said Audrey, springing up from the fallen tree.
* Now let us forget all cares, and only remember that it
is Allhallows e'en.'

CHAPTER V

HeccUeetions of Michctel Derwent; Written in the month of N(h
vemher, 1688, at St, HerherVa Isle, Derwenttoater,

When, after my long absence at Cambridge, I once
more saw Audrey Eadeliflfe, she bade me to a merry-
making and said that we were to forget all cares, it
being Hallowe^en. Her face had been a trifle grave a
moment before, our talk having turned upon religious
difEerences, which ever bring some sadness into the
happiest of homes; but it lit up as she spoke with its
old look of radiant, childlike happiness. Never, surely,
was there a more winsome face than hers, with its frank,
sweet look, its freedom from all that was artificial. One
would as soon have expected the noble beech trees in the
pleasance to lend themselves to the grotesque figures
into which gardeners hack box bushes, as have expected
Audrey to abandon her free, natural manner for the cat-
and-mouse tactics which most women adopt. To talk
with her was like talking with a boy, so free was she
from any trying after effect, only all the time one was
conscious of a sweet, subtle diflference, and knew that
she was just a pure-minded woman who had grown up
among the hills and dales of the dear old North-country,
and was as yet heart-whole as a child.

We walked slowly towards the old house, a fifteenth-
century mansion built of rough-hewn stone, but now,
since the stormy times of the great Civil War, sadly

42 HOPE THE HERMIT

falling into decay. Sir Wilfrid Lawson has often told
me what stirring times they had then, even in this quiet
part of the world, for Lord^s Island was garrisoned for
the King by old Sir Edward Kadcliffe, while St. Her-
bert's Isle — ^the Lawson property — ^was garrisoned, of
course, for the Parliament. Naturally Lord's Island
came oflf the worst, and the large private chapel, which,
to judge by the fragments remaining, must have been
a fine building, was unroofed, leaving little standing
but the eastern wall and its pointed window, with ivy
and creepers now festooning the broken tracery. The
dining-room, moreover, which adjoined it, was half de-
molished, so that there only remained on the ground
floor three rooms for the family use.

Sir Francis Kadcliffe, the present head of the Der-
wentwater family, lived wholly on his great property at
Dilston, in Northumberland, and they say that it was
only to humour a fancy of his kinsman, old Sir Nicholas,
that he permitted this younger branch of the Derwent-
waters to reside in the old house. In his heart of hearts
Sir Nicholas believes that the Lord's Island property
should really have been his, he being the descendant
of Nicholas Eadcliffe, gentleman, of Keswick, fourth
son of Sir Thomas Eadcliffe, who built the house. It
seems there was a family arrangement made by which
the first son was disinherited, and was only to be allowed
occupation by sufferance during his life, after which the
estate was to pass to the other sons and their descen-
dants. However, when the time came for this extraor-
dinary arrangement to be carried out, the son of the
disinherited heir was allowed to succeed, and, being a
man of much force of character, he made for himself a
good position and devised the estate at his death. This
story of the far past still rankles, nevertheless, in the
mind of old Sir Nicholas, who spends much of his time
in poring over musty old deeds and trying to prove to

HOPE THE HERMIT 43

the satisfaction of the lawyers that he should really be
owner of Lord^s Island instead of merely the occupant
of this half-dismantled house.

Audrey led me through the withdrawing-room into
the great hall, where the tenants were already gathering
in answer to the big bell which clanged overhead in
the tower. Standing to welcome them was old Sir
Nicholas in his mulberry-coloured coat. He was not in
the least altered; indeed, he appeared to me, if anything,
younger, for, as a boy, I had always thought of him as
a very aged man. Now there seemed to me, after all,
to be much vitality in the gentle old face, though he
had already reached his three-score years and ten. His
mild blue eyes had always to me the look of some
mediaeval saint, and they glanced at me very kindly
when he spoke and bade me welcome to Lord's Island.
It was in Audrey's mother that I noticed more plainly
the havoc that time had wrought. She had never been
strong, and now her hair was quite grey, while there
were lines that told of pain and anxiety about her
mouth. One does not think much about one's elders
in childhood, but, coming back to the old scenes again,
it struck me for the first time what a difficult life Mrs.
Marmaduke Eadcliflfe had led. Even the days of her
courtship must have been troubled, for it had sorely
displeased Sir Nicholas that his heir should fall in love
with a dowerless maid, and a Protestant to boot, and
Marmaduke had made matters still more trying to his
father by joining the Church of England himself, and
leaving directions in his will that his children should be
brought up in the same faith. Then he had died before
they had been married a year, and his widow had still
further disappointed Sir Nicholas by giving birth to a
daughter instead of a son, whereby the Goldrill estate
would pass upon his death to his younger brother, who,
although of his own creed, was not a man in whom any

44 HOPE THE HERMIT

one put much confidence — at least, so I have heard
Zinogle say.

Mrs. Eadcliffe put many questions to me about my Ufe
at Cambridge, to which I replied dutifully, though, at
the same time, I could not forbear now and again glanc-
ing at Audrey as she moved about, chatting now with
this tenant, now with that. She had grown up among
them much as I had done, and she loved and respected
these sturdy North-country folk, and they, needless to
say, were quite ready to like one so winsome.

'And what are your plans now?^ asked Mrs. Ead-
cliflfe.

Her voice made me start guiltily, for, truth to tell, I
had paid no very great heed to what she had been saying
as to the changes that had come about during my
absence, or at any rate had given it but a divided
attention, hearing also Audre3r^s merry talk with
Zinogle.

'What are your plans ?^ said Mrs. EadcliflEe once more,
and there was something in her look and tone that dis-
concerted me horribly. I felt as if my heart had been
suddenly laid bare before her, as if she knew all about
the love which had quietly grown with my growth and
strengthened with my strength, and had now taken
possession of me body and soul. I grew hot all over
beneath the searching inquiry of those grey eyes, which
were so like Audre3r^s in shape and colour, but so xmlike
in expression.

I stammered like a stupid schoolboy. ' Sir Wilfrid
Lawson has made me his secretary, ma^am,^ I explained.
' I shall be sometimes at the house on St. Herbert^s Isle,
but more often at Isel Hall.^

Mrs. Eadcliflfe looked relieved, for Isel Hall lies be-
yond Bassenthwaite and Cockermouth, and is, as I
found to my cost, a most cruel distance from Lord's
Island.

HOPE THE HERMIT 45

And at the thought of this and the recollection that
it was sheer midsummer madness for a poor and penni-
less foxmdling of doubtfid birth to woo Audrey Rad-
cliflfe, a great heaviness fell upon me, and maybe it
would have been better had that sobering recollection
continued to weigh me down; only, unfortunately, all
things seem possible at twenty, and no sooner had
Zinogle played the first two or three bars of the merry
air ^ Come, lasses and lads,* than my spirits had risen
again, and before the great bell had ceased clanging I
had asked Audrey to be my partner in the country
dance, and we were galloping down the middle and up
again.

I do not know whether at Court Audrey woidd have
been considered a good dancer; perhaps in the stifE and
stately minuets she might not have excelled, but at a
country dance no one could beat her; she was all life
and animation and gaiety; she enjoyed it as unfeignedly
as a child. As for me, naturally enough, I was in the
seventh heaven of happiness, and came down to earth
again with a shock as Zinogle ceased pla3ring, and — ^the
dance being over — we suddenly perceived that two
visitors had entered the hall while it was in progress,
and were now talking to Sir Nicholas and Mrs. Eadcliffe.
Audrey just glanced at me, and then laughed.

^ I see you do not recognise them,* she said. * Come
and let me introduce you.*

There was no doubt that the guest who stood talking
to Sir Nicholas was a remarkably fine man. His huge
proportions seemed to dwarf the old knight altogether;
he was broad and massive, and held his head very erect,
as though calmly conscious of his own immense supe-
riority to the average mortals he met. At the first
glance I disliked the fellow, but when I saw him stoop
to salute Audrey, and speak to her in his aflfected,
patronising tone, I longed to kick him.

46 HOPE THE HERMIT

* Here is an old schoolfellow of yours/ she said, cheer-
fidly; ^but you fail to recognise each other. Let me
present Mr. Derwent, Mr. Brownrigg.^

I bowed stiffly, but Henry Brownrigg with a laugh-
artificial as the rest of his manners and customs — ^held
out his huge hand, and said in most patronising tones,
*What, Michael Derwent, the foundling? I had al-
most forgotten your existence. What have you been
doing with yourself all this time? *

There was nothing for it but to take the massive
hand he proffered; it was so broad and large that it felt
like shaking hands with a beef-steak. I muttered
something about Cambridge, and Sir Wilfrid Lawson,
angry with myself for letting this conceited fellow put
me so foolishly out of countenance.

* Ah, to be sure; Sir Wilfrid Lawson was your patron
from the first; I remember now,^ he said, looking me
over in his supercilious way. ^ Don't you find him
rather too outspoken — ^rather uncompromising? He
seems to me a dangerous patron in these dubious days,
when no one knows which way things will turn.*

* He has always been a good friend to me,* I said,
hotly, ^ and it scarcely becomes his secretary to criticise
him.*

^ Oh, he has made you his secretary? * said Brownrigg,
with a covert sneer. ^\ see; you are, of course, quite
right; you mustn't bite the hand that feeds you.*

With that he turned his back upon me and began to
talk in a low voice to Audrey, who seemed very well
pleased with his attentions, as indeed was most natural,
for there was no denying that he was a fine fellow,
though of a type I instinctively loathe.

Old Sir Nicholas glanced at them thoughtfully, then
with a slight shrug of the shoulders he turned to me
and said in his kind courteous fashion. ^If vou will
come with me into my study we will have a chat with

HOPE THE HERMIT 47

yoiir old friend and tutor, Mr. Noel; I see him over
yonder, listening to one of William Hollins* tales/

And, tnily enough, on looking across the hall I saw
that Mr. Noel, while listening to the farmer^s talk, had
his keen grey eyes fixed upon our group, and had
evidently noticed all that had passed. He gave me a
very pleasant greeting and we followed the old knight
into his study, a small, square room leading out of the
hall. It was lighted only by the blazing fire on the
hearth, and through the uncurtained window we coidd
see the moonlight on the water and the dark outline of
Skiddaw against the pale sky. Sir Nicholas, tired with
the effort of receiving his guests, sank down wearily in
his armchair, while Mr. Noel held me for some time in
talk by the window.

He had lived for the last ten years with Sir Nicholas,
and passed for his secretary; he kept all the household
accounts, looked after the property at Patterdale which
belonged to this younger branch of the Derwentwaters,
and during our childhood had acted as tutor to Audrey.
He wore secular dress, but of late years it had become
an open secret in the neighbourhood that he was in
reality a priest, probably one of the many Papists who
had been in peril of their lives during the late king's
reign, when panic had possessed the coxmtry and many
false reports had been spread abroad.

Mr. Noel had always been exceptionally kind to me,
as I said before, and it was largely through his influence
that Audrey and I had been permitted to continue
friends after our actual childhood was over; it was from
him that I had learnt many things which I coidd never
have learnt in the Keswick High School; and my success
at Cambridge was due to the thoroughness of the
grounding which he had given me in his leisure hours.
Mrs. Eadcliffe had taken good care that he should never
interfere with our religious views; but I am not sure

48 HOPE THE HERMIT

that I could have resisted his strong, indirect influence
had I not been withdrawn from it during the most
critical years of life and plunged into the wider world
of the University.

Coming back to my old friend and teacher after the
years of absence, I noticed one or two things about him
which as a boy had wholly escaped me. Beneath his
polished manners and his kindly, quiet way of talking
there was a suggestion of hardness. His power of read-
ing people's thoughts seemed almost uncanny, and he
presented a curious contrast to the saintly old knight,
for where the one was simple as a child the other was
evidently a man of schemes, though always, I should
fancy, schemes woven for what he thought the benefit
of others, since he was a good and a kind-hearted man.
The more he talked to me, however, that evening, the
more I became conscious that he looked upon life as a
very serious game of chess which the Almighty had set
him to play with the devil as opponent. We — ^the
laity whom he came across — were merely the pieces in
the game, to be moved as he thought best. And I am
sure he honestly believed that free-will was only given to
the laity that they might resign their wills into the
hands of the priest, who would mediate betwixt them
and heaven, guide all their affairs with the discretion
and wisdom which come from knowing the secrets of
all other men in the confessional, and, saving us a mort
of trouble, woidd personally conduct us through life
in the easiest way conceivable.

Nevertheless, though in common with the vast major-
ity of Englishmen I abhorred this notion of priestly
domination, I loved my old friend very heartily, and
spite of his failure to number me among his converts I
think he loved me, too. There were three things which
bound us closely together; the first was a mutual admi-
ration for old Sir Nicholas and his island home, the

HOPE THE HERMIT 49

second was a love of climbing the fells and crags of
Borrowdale, and the third wa& a common detestation of
Henry Brownrigg.

My heart warmed to the old tutor when I found that
this last was stronger than ever.

^Why are the Brownriggs here to-night?^ I ques-
tioned, seeing that Sir Nicholas had fallen asleep, and
that it was possible to inquire.

* Why, indeed? ^ said Mr. Noel, shaking his head. * I
know not; it is Mrs. Radcliffe^s doing. I believe she
maintains that the sister is a good friend for Mistress
Audrey. All I can say is that it is invariably the brother
who talks to her.*

I winced as his searching eyes rested for a moment
on my face, being sure that the torturing jealousy which
for the first time filled my heart must have been clearly
visible.

But Mr. Noel was always full of tact; there was no
slightest reference to Audrey in his next remark.

^ Henry Brownrigg/ he said, * thinks himself a fine
gentleman, but I can only say that for all his London
manners and his fine clothes he is but pinchbeck after
all. The poorest statesman in Borrowdale would have
had better breeding than to greet you in the fashion he
did to-night.'

' Sir,' I said, * as a lad you always bade me to wait and
to ask no questions, but I can wait no longer. I must
and will try to unravel the mystery of my parentage.'

^ I still advise you to wait,' said Mr. Noel, thought-
fully. * Had there been any chance of discovering the
truth do you not think it would have transpired in
twenty years' time? Besides, what will you gain? It
is pretty clear from the clothes in which you were found
that you are of gentle birth, and to my mind it is clear
that this ring shows that you were bom in wedlock.'

'I was always gratefid to you for holding that the

4

50 HOPE THE HERMIT

ring was evidence/ I replied. ^ But no one else accepts
it as evidence; even Mrs. EadcliflEe, kind as she is, never
admitted that it proved anjrthing/

* Mrs. EadcliflEe invariably takes the opposite side to
any opinion of mine/ said Mr. Noel, smiling somewhat
grimly. ^Her Protestant prejudice is too strong to
allow her to put faith in anything I do, or in any con-
clusion I draw.'

There was a touch of bitterness in his tone at which
one coidd not wonder, for what he said was true enough.
Mrs. Eadcliffe, though always civil to him, could not
bring herself to trust him. They had lived under the
same roof for twenty years, but in reality they knew
little of each other, as both were lynx-eyed to detect the
other's faidts, and somehow never succeeded in reaching
that meeting-place of mutual interest which must be
gained before heari; can answer to heari;.

Our talk was interrupted just at this point. I felt a
light touch on my arm which thrilled me through and
through. There stood Audrey, looking more exquisite
than ever in the pale moonlight.

'What grave discourses are you having?' she ex-
claimed, merrily, yet speaking low for fear of disturbing
Sir Nicholas. ' Come into the hall and let us roast our
chestnuts and see what fortune lies before us. Zinogle
and some of the others are playing at bob apple and the
sight would make even a Quaker laugh.'

CHAPTER VI

Recollections of Miehad Denoent (continued),

DuBiNQ the next few days Sir Wilfrid kept me hard
at work^ and it was not until Sunday that I again had a
chance of seeing Audrey. After service, as we came out
of Crosthwaite Church, I had the good fortune to over-
take her, and while Sir Wilfrid walked with Mrs. Rad-
cliflfe it fell to my share to carry Audrey's Prayer-book
for her and to escort her to the landing-place. It was
then that I was able to tell her of our old foster-mother's
invitation to spend the following day with her at
Grange; and Audrey, who had a great love for the place
where some of the happiest days of our childhood had
been spent, quickly gained her mother's permission,
and it was arranged that Dickon and I should call for
her in the boat early in the morning if the weather
permitted, and that we should spend a long day with
Anne Fisher at Grange Farm.

Poets have sung dismal ditties about November, but
as a matter of fact that particular November morning
when we set out on our expedition was the most beauti-
ful day conceivable. The sun had just dispersed the
thick mist which had shrouded Derwentwater, but here
and there on the side of Skiddaw foam-like wreaths still
lingered. Causey Pike had but lately thrown back its
silvery veil, and now rose radiant in the morning sun-
shine, a light sprinkling of snow on its summit, which
contrasted with the golden-brown bracken on Catbells;

52 HOPE THE HERMIT

while the thickly-wooded shore, with its dark green fir
trees and golden beeches and russet oaks, fast thinning
after the recent gales, made a perfect setting to the
glassy stillness of the water.

Audrey sat in the stem, closely wrapped in a cloak
of Lincoln green cloth, and wearing a little Puritan
hood in black velvet bordered with fur which suited her
vastly well.

^ Have you heard any news? ^ she asked, anxiously.

^ Nothing certain,^ I replied. ^ Sir Wilfrid heard
last night in Keswick that there were some that had
seen the Prince of Orange embark at Brill on Wednes-
day, and that the Princess had been there to take leave
of him and wish him God-speed. But this may be
mere idle gossip. It is thought he will land here
in the North. I only wish we had a chance to see
him.^

* They say he hath a sour temper,^ said Audrey, ^ but
that he is all for toleration. In any case he must be
better than King James, who seems the most cruel-
hearted bigot that ever wore the crown. Well, let us
talk no more of such vexed questions. Have you suc-
ceeded yet in your quest? ^

^ No,^ I replied; ^ but to-day I mean to question Anne
Fisher more closely, and Dickon hath been showing me
the exact spot in Borrowdale where he and Sir Wilfrid
rescued me.'

^ You must show it to me,' said Audrey, eagerly; ' I
never understood precisely where it was. Let us come
there first, for Anne will be busy making ready the
dinner, and will not have time to talk to us yet.'

Accordingly we left Dickon and the boat at Lowdore,
and made our way along the mule track to Grange,
paused just to greet our foster-mother at the farm, and
then wandered into Borrowdale, making our way along
the riverside and talking as friends talk when they have

HOPE THE HERMIT 53

been parted for a long time and have great arrears to
make up.

At last we came to the place where, not far from the
Bowder Stone, the river, after a broad, shallow reach,
grows somewhat narrower, and without much diflSculty
I found my way again to the old hollow oak which
Dickon had pointed out to me. Here, some three years
after my birth, they had discovered the remains of an
old cloak much weather-stained and covered with mil-
dew, but with a ribbon torn from it in one place, which
Anne Fisher stoutly maintained was without question
the ribbon which had bound the ring about me.

^And where did Dickon and Sir Wilfrid find you?^
said Audrey.

^ Close to the river, just by this birch tree, roaring,
they say, at the top of my voice.^

^ What hard hearts they must have had who deserted
you,' she exclaimed. ^They can have been only hire-
lings. I wonder whether those who found the cloak
searched for other things hidden in the tree.'

^Let us come and look,' I said, turning back to the oak.

Nothing, however, was to be seen, and, giving up the
search, we sat down to rest and chat; and, truth to tell, I
was too happy in the present and too full of dreams
for the future to care much about what had happened
twenty years ago.

^ Look at this ant! ' exclaimed Audrey, laughing. * It
is toiling along with a grain almost as large as itself.
There it goes down the crack by that large stone. Here
comes another and another; we must be on the high-
road to an anthill.'

With a mischievous smile she tried to lift the big
stone, but it was too heavy.

*You will cause a terrible commotion in that ant
kingdom,' I said, remonstratingly.

* Never mind,' she said, laughing. * They must have

54 HOPE THE HERMIT

their revolutions just as we do. Now please enact the
Prince of Orange, and let me see what is going on in
that world below/

I tore up the big stone from the moss and earth in
which it was embedded. The ants scurried away in all
directions, but we scarcely heeded them, for the sun
glinted on something bright and shining; it was the
gold setting of an oval miniature which lay there un-
harmed in the earth. Lifting it up eagerly and rubbing
the moidd from the glass, I saw the face of a beauti-
ful girl with soft brown curls lying on her white
shoulders; the face somehow seemed familiar to me.

I turned to Audrey in amazement.

^ Who is it? ' I said. ' How do I know these features
so well? '

'Why,' said Audrey, looking gravely first at the
miniature and then at me, ' there can be no doubt what-
ever about it. This must be your mother; you are her
living image, only with the strength of a man in your
look. See, the face is rather short, the cheek-bones
somewhat high, and the moulding of mouth and chin
and the very bright eyes — why, they are precisely like
yours.'

We turned the miniature over and searched anxiously
for any trace of a name, but there was none, nor could
we imagine why the miniature should have been hidden
in this extraordinary fashion; it almost looked as though
the hirelings who had deserted me had some special
dislike to my mother.

We went back to Grange Farm to show the treasure
we had discovered to Anne Fisher, and she, too, instantly
recognised the likeness which had struck us both. Un-
luckily it conveyed to her mind an idea which had not
occurred to me. When Audrey was out looking at her
old friends the pigeons my foster-mother drew me aside
to give me a word of counsel.

HOPE THE HERMIT 55

'Keep this quiet, my lad/ she said, *£or I fear it
points more to your mother's shame than anything yet
has done. No doubt it was the old story of a wUy-
tongued deceiver, and maybe she died at your birth,
and her family put away all remembrance of her and
left you to perish. Depend upon it, lad, there's shame in
the story, and you would do well not to search further/

^ Would you have me believe anything evil of such an
one as this?' I asked, looking again at the lovely face,
which was as guileless as the face of a child.

^ Ah, lad, you are young,' she said. ' God knows life
is harder for such as have a face like this, for they'll
^h^ve sair temptations, and willna find it easy faring.
But don't take it too heavily. You are not the first
that has beei^ bom nameless and yet has done good work
in the world.'

But though she spoke cheeringly my heart sank down
like lead, for I thought of Audrey, and felt more than
ever cut oflf from her, and I thought of Henry Brown-
rigg with a sort of dumb fury. Then I remembered the
ring and the motto, and felt certain that at any rate
my mother must have been deceived by some mock
marriage; to think otherwise of that exquisitely pure
face was impossible. It was my father who had betrayed
her and forsaken me and tossed aside the very picture
of the girl whose life he had ruined. For what had I
found this miniature if not to aid me in tracing him out
and calling him to account? The truth shoidd be
dragged from him, cost what it might, and my mother
should be avenged.

* Come, my lad,' said Anne Fisher; ^ dinner is ready.
Will you go and tell Mistress Audrey? '

I strode out of the houseplace, and, standing in the
porch, saw that Audrey was surrounded by pigeons,
which she was feeding. One that was specially tame had
perched on her shoulder and was eating fi*om her hand.

56 HOPE THE HERMIT

^ There, you greedy birds/ she cried; ^ yon have eaten
every grain, now fly away and let me go to my dinner.'

She clapped her hands and away flew the pigeons,
their white wings flashing in the sxmlight, and making
a vivid streak of brightness against the purple grey
heights of Maiden Moor.

*0h, Mic!^ she said, ^how good it is to be here,
away from all cares and anxieties! What pleasant
summer visits we used to have here! I could almost
wish we were just children again. By the bye, I never
heard what you thought of Henry Brownrigg. Has lie
not grown into a fine-looking man? ^

^ Very,^ I said, drily.

^ He is so tall and strong,' she said, reflectively; ^ I do
like those great big men.'

^ Yes, women always admire that " prize ox '' kind of
man,' I said, with a touch of bitterness, which did not
escape her.

^ Now, Michael,' she said, laughing, ^ I am not going
to allow you to make an eternal feud out of a schoolboy
quarrel. You two will have to be good friends now that
you have come back to the North. Don't be cross;
come and be fed.'

It was impossible to resist her coaxing, merry face;
we went into the house-place, and Anne Fisher feasted
us with all the favourite dishes of our childhood, be-
ginning with eggs and bacon and ending with radle
cakes.

It was dusk when Dickon and I rowed Audrey back to
Lord's Island; I remember that she sang, as she sat in
the stem, that quaint old song which begins, 'Now,
Eobin, lend to me thy bow.' Her voice was quite un-
trained, but sweet and clear as a bird's. When she had
left us it seemed to me that all the brightness had gone
out of my world.

*Let us come to Keswick,' I said to Dickon. 'Sir

HOPE THE HERMIT 57

Wilfrid will want to hear if any news has come, and I
must speak to Zinogle/

The German fiddler lived in the market-place in a
house not far from that of Sir John Banks. He owned
a couple of the upper rooms, and had no belongings in
the world but his fiddle and his dog; also, perhaps, I
should add his pipe, which was, he always maintained,
the best of companions.

I found him as usual in an atmosphere of music and
tobacco, and he seemed not a little interested in the
miniature when I showed it to him. He agreed with
Anne Fisher that it would be as well were I not to men-
tion it to people in general.

* There is one person, though, that ought to see it,'
he remarked, ^and that is Mr. Noel. Show it to him
and see what he says.^

' Yes, I will show it him,^ I replied; ^ he always main-
tained that the ring was a wedding-ring.*

* Did it ever strike you that he perhaps knows more
than he says?* asked Zinogle, his keen eyes looking
right into mine.

* If he knew the truth surely he would tell it,* I said;
*but no, it is impossible. From the way in which he
was talking only the other night it's clear to me that he
knows nothing. He was saying that if it had been
possible for the truth to come out it would surely have
transpired in twenty years.*

' H*m,* grunted Zinogle, ^ you might take that saying
in two ways. He is deep and subtle. I still think
he knows the truth; and if he learnt it in the confes-
sional, why, his tongue is tied. That must be a bad
predicament for an honest man, to know, perhaps, of
some atrocious wrong and to be xmable to speak and save
the innocent.*

' The whole system is an accursed one,* I said, hotly.
' Ha! what is that hubbub in the market-place? *

58 HOPE THE HERMIT

Such a shouting and cheering and huzzaing as I had
never heard in quiet little Keswick rent the air. We
thrust our heads out of the window, and saw that the
people were crowding round a rider who had drawn rein
at the town hall, a quaint old timber building in the
centre of the square.

^ The Prince must have landed! * cried Zinogle, and
with one accord we rushed down stairs and out into the
market-place, there to hear the welcome tidings that on
the morning of the 5th the Prince of Orange had
landed at Brixham in Devonshire, and that King James
woidd no longer be free to trample the laws of England
under foot.

We had expected the landing to be in the north, and
ever, since the trial of the seven bishops, preparations for
a rising had been silently going on under the leadership
of the Earl of Devonshire, the Earl of Derby, and my
Lord Lumley. It was something of a disappointment
that Brixham should have chanced to be the landing-
place, but as there was no question of fighting, at any
rate at present, we Cumbrians worked off our excitement
in other ways, and there was a hurried climbing of
Skiddaw to kindle the beacon, which had last been fired
when the seven bishops were acquitted in the summer.

The night was clear and frosty, and the beacon blazed
gloriously in the still air, bearing its good tidings into
many a distant dale and town. One old veteran, who
had climbed as lustily as any of us youngsters, stood
with his white head uncovered, and solemnly gave
thanks to God for having sent a deliverer to the nation,
and then Zinogle, who for all his comic vein had a
grave side as well to his character, played on his fiddle
the first line of the Old Hundredth, and we all fell in
with his thought and sang the psalm which more than
any other tends to deepen joy and quicken gratitude.

Then came a race down the mountain at some peril

HOPE THE HERMIT 59

to our necks, and after pushing our way through the
thronged market-square, where many drunken revellers
were shouting ^ Lero, lero, lillibidero/ at the tops of
their voices, Dickon and I made our way to the landing-
place and rowed across the quiet water to St. Herbert's
fcle. There was a faint yellow light in Audrey's bed-
chamber, and it looked pale as a primrose in contrast
with the red glare of the beacon, which still blazed on
Skiddaw. I wondered much how the news would aflfect
the divided household on Lord's Island.

CHAPTER Vn

As Michael rowed past Lord's Island the old knight
and his chaplain were sitting by the hearth in the study,
talking gravely over the great event of the day. That
unwelcome red glare in the sky, that blazing beacon on
Skiddaw, had roused even gentle old Sir Nicholas to
think anxiously of the future which lay before them.
But it was not so much of the country in general as of
his own estate and his own private affairs that Sir Nich-
olas thought.

*I fancy however things turn they will not molest
me,' he said. * They know that I meddle not in affairs
of State, and that for the last year I have not even
quitted the island. But when my brother succeeds to
the estate matters will be very different. He has ever
been headstrong and over-much embroiled in plots and
politics. If this scheme of my daughter-in-law's for
marrying Audrey to young Mr. Brownrigg is carried out
I foresee nothing but storms in the future.'

* That is too true,' said Mr. Noel, thoughtfully. * It
would be to Henry Brownrigg's interest to get your
brother out of the way and seize on the estate in his
wife's name. Oh, he is quite capable of that, for he is
ambitious and a lover of money, besides being as bitter
a Protestant as ever I met. If he had his way every
Catholic would be driven from the land. Heaven grant
that pretty Mistress Audrey may never be his wife.'

' Amen to that,' said Sir Nicholas, feebly rubbing his
thin hands. *It is the wish of my heart to see her

HOPE THE HERMIT 6x

\¥edded to young Guthbert Salkeld^ who is not only
xich^ but a good Catholic and of excellent character.
IHer mother is bitterly opposed to it, however, and will
not hear of her being given in marriage to any but a
Protestant/

*' How Mrs. Badcliffe can be hoodwinked by such an
overbearing and pragmatical piece of conceit as Henry
Brownrigg passes my understanding,' said Mr. Noel.
' But she can see no fault in him. And what is more, if
she encourages his suit, I fear Mistress Audrey will be
won over, for no doubt he is a fine figure of a man, and
that goes for much with one so young. If it be indeed
out of the question to urge the marriage with Mr. Sal-
keld, how would it be to take advantage of Michael Der-
\rent's perfectly evident devotion to your granddaugh-
ter?'

'Eh? What? Does the wind sit in that quarter? '
Said Sir Nicholas, with some surprise. * I knew they
were good friends, but never guessed that the boy
dreamt of such a thing.'

'He has said naught,' said Mr. Noel, 'but I have
known him all his life, and can read his face like a
book. He is very much in love — ^there is no doubt of
that.'

' But his birth. Father, and his fortune? In no way.
is he a fitting match for my granddaughter.'

' Oh, as for ^is birth, that is indeed a mystery,' said
Mr. Noel; ' but everything pointed to his being of gentle
lineage. As for money, it is true that he hath but what
he earns, yet I am much mistaken if he does not make
his mark in the world. ^ Then, although he is a Prot-
estant, and for that reason might prove acceptable as a
son-in-law to Mrs. Eadcliflfe, he is no bigot, as we have
good reason to know. Indeed, I am sure he would be
the very one to help and shelter any Catholic, if he
deemed him hardly dealt with by the Government.

62 HOPE THE HERMIT

There is a generosity about Michael Derwent which is
wholly wanting in such men as Henry Brownrigg/

^ Yes, yes, they are poles apart, and I like the lad well
enough. Still, it is not such a match as a Badclifie
might have looked for/

The priest^s face bore a curious expression; one might
almost have fancied that there was a momentary gleam
of humour in his grey eyes. He turned away, and be-
gan to pace the room restlessly. ^ Of course, the other
match would be in every way more desirable,' he said;
^ young Salkeld is a good Cathblic and will succeed to
the title, but that seems out of the question during Mrs.
Eadcliffe's lifetime. The point now is whether, to get
rid of the Brownrigg incubus, it might not be worth
while to encourage Michael Derwent.'

^I leave it to you,' said Sir Nicholas, with a sigh.
^ Such things are better managed by active and obser-
vant people. I am merely a recluse. You love Audrey,
and have her best interests at heart. Act as it seems
well to you. For my own part, I have always liked
Michael.'

Mr. Noel was quite ready to echo these last words,
for his affection for his pupil was perfectly genuine.
Nevertheless, he had no scruples as to using Michael in
whatever way seemed best for the general furtherance
of his well-meaning schemes; and it was quite possible,
as he now foresaw, that, after encouraging his passion
for Audrey, circumstances might arise which would
make it politic to reverse these tactics.

There were so many things which might alter the
whole state of affairs. Not only private happenings,
but the troubled and uncertain state of the country,
made it a most interesting problem for the priest's brain
to busy itself with. He sat musing over it in silence.
The Salkeld marriage was the game he had actually
planned, but his opponent's play had necessitated a new

HOPE THE HERMIT 63

deyelopment^ in which Michael for a time was to be the
piece brought into action.

He^ meanwhile^ quite unconscious of all this^ was sup-
ping with Sir Wilfrid and discussing the great news of
the day, while Audrey and her mother, having watched
the beacon die out and darkness settle over Derwent-
water, lingered a little over their preparations for the
night to talk over the news as it affected their own
particular neighbourhood.

^ The Lowthers will sleep more peacefully now/ said
Mrs. Eadcliffe, with a smile. ^And Henry Brownrigg
will feel that his star is in the ascendant. He is pretty
sure to get promotion if the Prince's cause triumphs, as
there is every reason to think it will.'

^That will just suit him; his sister says he is very
ambitious,' said Audrey, laughing. ^What will they
ftiake him, I wonder? He certainly loves ordering other
folk about.'

Her mother glanced at her a little anxiously. Did
:his frank criticism of Henry Brownrigg hide any deeper
feelings? She could not feel sure; and her heart mis-
gave her a little when Audrey began a graphic descrip-
tioii of her happy day in Borrowdale, and of how they
tad discovered the miniature.

' Poor Michael! ' said Mrs. Radcliffe. ^ This makes
his case even worse. There can be no doubt now of his
mother's disgrace. To-morrow, Audrey, we will go over
to Millbeck Hall and see the Brownriggs. Henry is sure
to have the latest news as to the Prince's progress, and I
have great confidence in his opinion. Young as he is,
I would take his judgment before Sir Wilfrid's.'

To this Audrey was quite ready to agree. To her
there seemed no comparison between Sir Wilfrid and
that paragon of perfection at Millbeck Hall. Undoubt-
edly she was much flattered by Henry Brownrigg's at-
tentions, and honestly admired his splendid physique;

64 HOPE THE HERMIT

nor was she altogether unaware of a certain throbbing
of the heart and quickening of the pulses at the very
mention of his name. But these details were nothing
to Father Noel; he rated them at precisely what they
were worth, and with a shrug of his shoulders calmly
continued his game of human chess.

The peaceful English Eevolution meanwhile went
quietly on its course. The Prince of Orange, who had
come over at the pressing invitation of the leading men
among Tories and Whigs, and worthy representatives of
the Church of England and the Nonconformists, was
naturally acknowledged with little delay by the nation.
York and Newcastle, and indeed city after city, declared
in his favour, and King James found that his tyranny
had wholly alienated the hearts of the people. The
spies sent by him to find out what was doing in the West
took his money and quietly joined the Prince, so that it
was almost impossible for the King to get any true idea
of his son-in-law^s movements. He could only learn
that day after day one great man after another joined
his army, the cruellest cut of all being, perhaps, the
desertion of Lord Churchill and the Duke of Grafton,
who joined the Prince at Axminster, Churchill quitting
the King^s army at night, and explaining by letter that
he could not fight against the Protestant cause.

Then followed negotiations which might very possibly
have left James the crown, but made for ever out of the
question that despotic authority which he desired. Un-
fortunately for himself, he had all his father^s duplicity
without his virtues, and while treating with the Prince
of Orange he was also negotiating with France and en-
deavouring to set up his despotism once more by French
aid.

At last, his plight growing desperate, he resolved upon
flight. Having previously contrived to send the Queen
and her child to France, he left Whitehall on the tenth

HOPE THE HERMIT 65

of December disgtdsed as the servant of Sir Edward
Hales^ and favoured by the darkness^ for it was three
o'clock in the morning.

Thinking to plunge the country into difficulties^ he
flung the Great Seal into the river, and escaped in a
miserable fishing-boat which had been provided by his
companion. But unluckily, Sir Edward Hales was
recognised by some fishermen at Feversham, who took
upon themselves to check his progress, and the King,
thus caught in the act of running away, was ignomini-
ously brought back again, to the general embarrassment
of the people and their leaders, who were at a great loss
to know what to do with him. Some were for keeping
him prisoner, and it became clear that while he re-
mained at Whitehall disorders would be certain to arise
in London. It was at length suggested to him, that he
should retire to Rochester, and from thence in a few
days he once more escaped by night, and going on board
a frigate in the Medway, was swiftly borne, as the people
would have said, ^ by a Protestant wind ' to Ambleteuse,

from which place he made his way to St. Germain's.
6

CHAPTEE Vni

Recollections of Michael Derwent

All through December and January there was scarcely
anything but talk of public events, and Sir Wilfrid
kept me hard at work, so that, what with writing of
letters and attending conferences at Cockennouth and
elsewhere, I began to despair of ever seeing Audrey
again. Henry Brownrigg had just been promoted to
the ofl&ce of TJnder-Sheriff, and it maddened me to think
that he might see her every day if it so pleased him.
However at last my chance came, and his, thanks to
providence — or as I sometimes fancy to the machina-
tions of Father Noel — was for the time lost.

It came about in this fashion.

There lived at Raby Castle in the county of Durham
one Sir Christopher Vane — son of the late Sir Harry
Vane, commonly known as the patriot — ^and he had
arranged to hold high festival at Eaby late in February,
in honour of a family event it was said, though prob-
ably not without reference to the great change which
had taken place in public affairs.

Sir Christopher had at one time held office imder
King James; the Sovereign's illegalities had, however,
so disgusted him that he gave up the untenable theory
that the King could do no wrong, and in the reaction
went back to the faith of his fathers and became a
strong advocate of freedom. It was therefore both con-
venient and seemly that his change of front should be

HOPE THE HERMIT 67

generally known, and by inviting a host of friends and
showing them a princely hospitality he managed very
neatly to eflfect his object.

Sir Wilfrid Lawson being an old friend of the Vanes
was among the first to be invited, and I thought my-
self in luck^s way to get the chance of accompanying
him, specially when I learnt through old Zinogle, who
chanced to be in Cockermouth to play at a wedding,
that Audrey and her mother had also received an invita-
tion, — owing I believe to some past connection between
the Vanes and the Radcliflfes.

We left Isel Hall just after the news had arrived that
the Convention had offered the crown to the Prince of
Orange, and the Princess Mary, and that they had been
proclaimed King and Queen at London and West-
minster. Great therefore were the rejoicings at Cocker-
mouth, where what with church bells ringing, and the
people half wild with joy to think that the suspense
and imcertainty were ended, and the reign of toleration
beginning, we found some difl&culty in making our way
through the thronged streets; for — let alone the crowd
— ^there were scores of folk that wanted a word with Sir
Wilfrid, he being much beloved in all the neighbour-
hood. However at length we were riding along the
quiet shore of Bassenthwaite and as dusk fell found
ourselves once more in the familiar little market town
of Keswick. We lay that night at the Eoyal Oak, where
Zinogle came to see me, bringing me word that Henry
Brownrigg was to accompany the ladies from Lord's
Island on their journey early the next morning. This
was not very cheerful hearing, and I lay awake a whole
hour brooding over the news. Nevertheless things
looked brighter by daylight, and having made a hearty
breakfast I set out with my patron in excellent spirits,
full of hope that we might fall in with Audrey upon the

road. ^-^'^Tr O P V ^ " ^

68 HOPE THE HERMIT

We had only just quitted the town when suddenly a
man sprang forward from the shelter of a great beech
tree and^ waving a paper in his hand to attract attention,
called to Sir Wilfrid to draw rein.

^ There's mischief afoot, sir/ he panted breathlessly,
^ Of your charity bear this to the tFnder-SheriflE — ^they
say he has ridden to Stable Hills Farm/

Before Sir Wilfrid could put a single question to him
the man had thrust the letter into his hand and had
dashed away into the wood as though dreading detec-
tion.

^Here's a pretty state of things/ said Sir Wilfrid.
^ Mischief afoot already and the King and Queen but
just proclaimed! We must lose no time, Michael, but
carry this news to Henry Brownrigg. Did you ever see
that fellow before ? '

^ I never caught a full sight of his face, his hat was
over his eyes, sir,' I replied. ^ But his way of speaking
was not Cumbrian. Now I think of it, his speech
savoured a little of that Irish cobbler that Father Noel
nursed through the small-pox.'

^ Ah, I remember hearing about that,' said Sir Wil-
frid, ^ though I never saw the cobbler. Father Noel has
as kind a heart as any man in the county. Pity he is
on the wrong side.'

We rode as fast as might be to Stable Hills Farm,
which was on the eastern side of Derwentwater and
within a stone's throw of Lord's Island. It was here
the Radcliffes stabled their horses.

In front of the farm there was a little group which I
eagerly scanned. Audrey, looking wonderfully fresh
and winsome in her brown riding skirt and broad
plumed hat, was already mounted on her chestnut mare,
Firefly; and Henry Brownrigg was in the act of help-
ing Mrs. Eadcliflfe to her pillion behind one of the
serving-men, while Father Noel stood talking to William

HOPE THE HERMIT 69

Hollins the farmer. He glanced round quickly as we
approached and I am sure I saw a twinkle of amused
satisfaction in his eye as we drew rein.

' I am glad to have caught you before you started^
Mr. Brownrigg/ exclaimed Sir Wilfrid, after saluting
the ladies. ^Just as we rode out of Keswick a man
thrust this letter for you into my hand and asked me to
give it you with all speed, as mischief was brewing.
What the fellow means I have no notion, nor was he a
man I had ever seen before. He disappeared before I
could question him, and perhaps the letter will explain
itself.'

Henry Brownrigg, with an important air which evi-
dently amused Father Noel, slowly broke the seal and
read the letter. As he read, his face darkened. He
read the communication a second time more carefully
and stood for a few minutes deep in thought, not un-
conscious that all eyes were upon him, for he was the
sort of man to find this a very soothing sensation to his
Self-love.

' Well, there is no help for it,' he said, with a shrug
of the shoulders, ^ my duty calls me away, ladies; there
is, I fear, mischief afoot and I shall not be able to escort
you to Baby Castle. Be sure that I shall follow you,
though, as soon as I can. Possibly to-morrow or the
next day.'

He handed the missive to Sir Wilfrid, who quite
agreed with him that he must stay and inquire into the
matter and courteously volunteered to take his place as
escort to Mrs. Eadcliffe and her daughter.

They were very glad to accept the suggestion, and
Audrey, after sajdng a courteous word or two of regret
to Henry Brownrigg and hoping that the business would
not detain him long, was very soon chatting gaily
enough with me, nor could I read in her face any sign
that she was grieving over the absence of the Under-

•70 HOPE THE HERMIT

Sheriflf. I built a great deal on this — ^foolishly enough
— ^not having learnt yet that women have a most ex-
traordinary power of hiding their true feelings, and
that the most skilful of all actresses is a maiden who
would fain conceal her love story from the public
gaze.

I shall never pass along the Penrith road without
remembering our cheery ride that day.

^ Isel Hall has taught you how to talk/ she said once
with a roguish glance in my direction. ^ The silent
Cambridge graduate is no more! '

And how was I to sum up audacity enough to tell her
the truth, that it was not the time at Isel which had
taught me, but just the delight of being in her presence
which, since that first bewildering November afternoon
when we had met once more on Lord^s Island, had
changed my whole world, and made me for the first time
feel that I truly lived. Without her it was mere exis-
tence, but with her life indeed.

We broke the journey at the most comfortable of the
wayside inns, arriving at Staindrop, the village close to
Eaby Castle, just as the sun was setting on the second
day.

The broad village street was unusually lively, and as
we passed the old grey-towered church Audrey drew my
attention to a group of pretty children standing by the
wall, and with a laugh tossed them some comfits from a
little embroidered bag hanging at her side.

^I warrant you they envy us, these chubby httle
mortals,^ she said. ^ And yet, to tell the truth, I would
far liefer dismount and play with them than ride on to
this stately place where we shall find only strangers.'

But spite of the shyness natural enough to one who
was used to nothing but country life, she gave a cry of
delight when, as we rode up the rising ground, that
splendid pile of massive towers and turrets and battle-

HOPE THE HERMIT 71

mented walls came into view. The red sun was sinking
like a glowing ball in the grey misty sky and a rosy
glow rested on the castle — ^the pride of the neighbour-
hood ever since the days of Canute. The place had been
partially mined and had been sold to the elder Sir Henry
Vane by Charles I. According to the purchaser it had
then been merely ^a hillock 0' stanes/ but judicious
re-building had soon wrought a magical transformation
and it is said King Charles considered that the splendid
castle which he visited later on had been very cheaply
obtained. Passing over the drawbridge and across a
courtyard we rode into the actual castle itself, dismount-
ing at the foot of the great staircase where Sir Christo-
pher stood to receive his guests. He was a somewhat
heavy-featured man^ and I, naturally enough, expected
the most formal of greetings from him, but as I made
my bow and his eyes rested for a moment on my face
a look of astonishment and a muttered ejaculation
escaped him; however, quickly recovering himself, he
turned again to speak with Mrs. Eadcliffe, and it was
not until the following day that I understood the mean-
ing of the look of recognition which I had certainly
seen in his eyes.

Chancing to be early astir, I came across Sir Chris-
topher in one of the corridors, and he, with a kindly
greeting and a somewhat searching look, invited me to
go with him into the walled garden at a little distance
from the house.

^ I understand from Sir Wilfrid that you are his sec-
retary,' he began, as we entered the garden. ^ I did not
catch your name yesterday,' he glanced at me ques-
tioningly.

* I am called Michael Derwent, sir,' I replied. ^ But
I have no real surname, being just a foundling. Sir
Wilfrid rescued me twenty years ago in Borrowdale by
the river side.'

72 HOPE THE HERMIT

A most extraordinaiy look passed over Sir Christo-
pher's face.

*Do you mean that he found you there deserted?'
he asked quickly.

* Yes, deserted and half dead with cold and hunger.
Luckily he chanced to be out early that morning on a
fishing expedition or it would have been all over with
me/

*And you have never found out anything of yoni
parentage?*

^ Never, sir, though I would give the world to do so.
I am in a miserable position now, and until I can find
out the truth my career is sure to be more or less ham-
pered/

^ Perhaps I can help you up to a certain point,' said
Sir Christopher cautiously. ^ I recognised you in a mo-
ment, for you are the living image of your mother.'

^ You knew her, sir? ' I asked eagerly, and after a
moment's reflection I drew out the miniature, which I
had never ceased to wear since the day we had discov-
ered it, and placed it in his hands.

He looked at it with admiration but quite without any
trace of special feeling; clearly my mother had been but
an acquaintance, and yet it set all my pulses throbbing
at double time to think that he had once seen her and
that he knew her story.

* Is she still living? ' I asked eagerly.

* No,' he replied, ^ she died at your birth. Poor girl!
she was only seventeen if I remember right.'

* Then it must have been my father who deserted me.'
^Yes, I suppose so,' he replied, cautiously weighing

his words. * Your father was my friend. I understood
that he meant to leave you in charge of some of the
dalesfolk. I suppose he changed his mind.'

^ At least tell me his name,' I said with rage in my
heart.

HOPE THE HERMIT 73

' I wish I could do so. But I was a mere lad at the
time/ replied Sir Christoplier, ^ and my friend who was
considerably older extorted a vow of secrecy from me/

' I suppose he wronged my mother and then naturally
enough desired to make an end of me/ I said with burn-
ing cheeks.

* No, no, it was not so bad as that,^ said Sir Christo-
pher. ^ He may have neglected your mother, it is true;
lis passion was too vehement to last long, it burnt itself
Dut in a few weeks. But he wedded her honestly
Bnough in London, though at what church I dare not
tell you. I was one of the witnesses myself however,
vcA can set your mind at rest on that score.'

I was silent for a minute trying to realise that the
load which had so long oppressed me had suddenly
been taken away and that the worst obstacle to my
acceptance by Mrs. Badcliffe as Audrey's suitor no
longer existed. We passed a great bush of lavender
about which a spider had been spinning its web, and
now all wet with morning dew it sparkled in the sun
like a dainty network of diamonds. No less brilliant
was the dream castle I hastily reared upon these words
of Sir Christopher's.

' Is my father still living, sir? ' I asked after a pause.

'Yes, but it is many years since I saw him. And
now I believe he is not in England. You wonder no
doubt why it was that he deserted you since you were
liis rightful heir. I have no right to explain that mat-
ter to you, but I will certainly communicate with him
Emd let him know that I have come across you. He may
jret acknowledge you — ^indeed I should think he would
be glad to do so. There, let us say no more of the
matter; I have perhaps already been ill-advised in speak-
ing so freely.'

With a few kindly and hospitable words he left me to
think over the astonishing news that he had told me,

74 HOPE THE HERMIT

and I might have paced up and down the garden paths
for hours had I not been interrupted. There was a
merry shout and a ringing ehild^s laugh; then, down the
green alley in pursuit of a ball, ran a little imp of about
seven years of age, hotly pursued by Audrey, who always
dearly loved a good romp with children.

^ Neighbour, I've come to torment you — do as I do! '
was her laughing greeting, and whether I would or no
she dragged me into the game which, to the great de-
light of little Will Vane, we continued until he was
fetched away by one of the servants.

^ Why, 'tis as hot as midsummer! ' said Audrey, her
face all aglow with the fresh air and the exercise; ^ come
let us rest awhile in this arbour. What were you med-
itating upon so solemnly when we came across you just
now?'

Then I told her of all that Sir Christopher had said,
and her delighted sympathy made my heart beat fast.
Audrey had a way of identifjdng herself with her friends
and their interests which very few women possess.
Many can give sympathy, but she gave her whole being
and made you feel that she cared for your concerns
almost more than you cared yourself.

All this I understood afterwards, but in the glow of
hope and excitement which filled my heart this morning
it seemed to me that a whole new life was opening be-
fore me and that all the wishes of my heart were going
to be granted at once. Yet I dared not tell her yet of
my love, though I longed to do so. For that it was
surely best to wait until all things connected with my
father had been made clear. The only thing that I
ventured to do was to ask her to tell her mother what
Sir Christopher had said, and later in the day Mrs. Rad-
cliflfe spoke very kindly to me about this, while Sir
Wilfrid, who probably had some inkling as to my feel-
ings towards Audrey, was full of congratulations and

HOPE THE HERMIT 75

earned my eternal gratitude by giving me almost un-
limited freedom dnring our brief viait.

But all things delightful must come to an end^ and
on the fourth evening of our stay there came a sudden
eclipse of all satisfaction as far as I was concerned. «

There was dancing that night in the Baron's Hall —
one of the most magnificent rooms I have ever seen.
All the wealth and beauty of the neighbourhood seemed
gathered together beneath its vaulted roof^ but Audrey
with her child-like grey eyes and her wealth of golden-
brown hair was the fairest of all the company — ^not the
least of her charms being her wonderful simplicity. I
heard one critical matron declare that for all her good
looks she did not know how to use her charms and
make the most of her advantages; but it was just in that
very fact that her great charm lay. While other girls
picked up a dozen coquettish tricks^ and ogled every
man they encountered, Audrey went on her way with
the light-hearted ease of a child of six years old, heartily
enjoying fun and frolic and without I am sure one vain
or selfish thought. It was wonderful to me that every-
one was not at her feet. But my luck was still in the
ascendant; she gave me three dances, and afterwards for
a while we sat together in one of the window seats chat-
ting of trivial things, and letting the golden hours slip
by in a way which I bitterly regretted when it was too
late. How was I to know that fate in the person of
Henry Brownrigg was climbing the stair, entering the
hall, and at that very moment seeking me out?

I saw Audrey start a little, and glancing up saw the
massive figure and handsome haughty features of the
TJnder-Sheriflf. He greeted Audrey effusively.

'Yes, I have been able at last to overtake you,' he
said, favouring me with a curt nod. 'The rumour
seems to have been a false alarm after all. By the bye,
Derwent, Sir Wilfrid is looking for you. A messenger

76 HOPE THE HERMIT

rode over to Keswick from Isel Hall just before I left
and I was able to bring the letter on here. It seems
that Lady Lawson is very ill/

I hastened to join my patron and found that Henry
Brownrigg^s news was only too true. Sir Wilfrid was
in great anxiety^ and as it was a moonlight night and
the roads in these parts were not so dangerous as in
many other neighbourhoods, he had determined to lose
no time but to press on at once.

So ended the happiest days of my life. Hastily tak-
ing leave of Audrey and her mother I hurried off to
prepare for the journey, to change my black velvet
costume for a sober travelling dress of brown tweed, to
don a heavy frieze cloak warranted to keep the wearer
warm even in our northern winter, and to pack Sir
Wilfrid's possessions for him.

Sir Christopher took a kindly farewell of us and just
at the last drew me aside to say in a low voice that he
would not forget his promise to write to my father at
the earliest opportunity. Then we rode out through
the great door and across the drawbridge, and through
the park with its bright stretches of white light and its
inky shadows. The clock was striking ten when I
turned to get one last look at the castle with its noble
outlines, its orange-coloured lamps shining from every
window, and its stately towers clearly defined against
the pale sky. Would Audrey give a thought to me
on this dreary night journey? Something told me she
woidd; and I rode on, cold and tired, and chafing under
the thought that our gala days had come to so sudden
an end; yet beneath it all was that comforting assur-
ance which kept with me like a living presence all
through the night.

CHAPTER IX

It was with a sense of great content that Henry
Brownrigg watched his rival disappear from the Baron's
Hall. It was not easy any longer to despise Michael
Derwent; he could not be bullied as in the old school
days, and he had a way of entirely ignoring slights and
snubs which recoiled upon the snubber, and was highly
irritating. That the fellow had the presumption to
love Audrey Radcliflfe there was no doubt, but whether
Audrey returned the feeling was fortunately quite un-
certain, and Henry Brownrigg, who had his share of the
wisdom of the serpent, checked the disparaging remark
which was on his lips and made no allusion to Michael
at all, but instead gave the girl an amusing account of
the diflBcidties he had had to contend with in hunting
up traces of the rumoured plot.

Audrey was interested and not a little flattered by
his way of talking to her; empty compliments woidd not
have pleased her at all, but she felt the subtle charm of
being deferred to and consulted by a man who knew so
much of the world; and whereas Michael had never been
able to awaken in her anything but the most sisterly
friendship, this older man, with his fine physique and
his carefully drawn plan of campaign, was able to lay a
most successful siege upon her heart.

Her pulses beat quickly when the following morning
her mother called her aside just before the guests went
to make ready for morning church.

' My child,' she said, * Mr. Brownrigg has just asked

78 HOPE THE HERMIT

me to give you to him in marriage. Tell me the tmih:
could you love him as a husband? ^

Audrey blushed and trembled.

'I thhik I could, ma^am/ she said, 'and yet — oh
mother! must I wed him yet? I do not think I can
leave you.'

' Dear child,' said her mother, ' there is no immediate
haste, and indeed your marriage to such a man would
be a great comfort to me. We cannot always be to-
gether, dear heart, and as you well know my health is
but imcertain.'

* Oh do not say that,' said Audrey, tears rushing to
her eyes, ' I could never be happy without you, mother/

Mrs. Eadcliffe took the girl's hand and held it
caressingly.

* Why, Audrey,' she said, ^ it will not make me die a
day sooner to speak of the possibility. And think what
a load you will take from my heart if you can indeed
accept Henry Brownrigg's proposal of marriage. I
should then be at rest about your future. But if I had
to leave you in the old house with only your grand-
father and Mr. Noel I should be anxious indeed for
your well-being.'

' Then I will accept this oflfer of marriage,' said
Audrey with great calmness, ^ only do not let there be
any haste as to the ceremony. If we are betrothed you
would then feel happy about me? '

'Quite happy,' said Mrs. Eadcliflfe, with a sigh of
relief. 'I will tell Mr. Brownrigg that he may speak
with you after church. Eun and dress quickly, my dear,
or we shall keep the others waiting.'

Audrey in a whirl of excitement, half painful, halt
pleasureable, hastily put on her fur-bordered mantle and
her broad, feathered hat; she also put on for the first
time a dainty pair of French gloves which had been
given to her at Christmas, and taking her large morocco-

HOPE THE HERMIT 79

bound prayer-book joined the other guests at the foot of
the great staircase. She perceived directly that Henry
Brownrigg was talking to Lady Vane^ and stole a shy
glance at her future husband who^ in his purple coat^
best lace cravat and huge periwig, looked a very fine
gentleman indeed. Did she love him? Yes, there
could certainly be no doubt as to that; she loved him
with that blind admiration which is not the highest
or the happiest form of love, but which, while it lasts, is
undoubtedly most real.

Like one treading on air she walked through the park
to Staindrop church and side by side with her lover
paced up the path between the graves which led to the
stately building where according to tradition Canute
had once worshipped. It was rich in monuments of
the Nevill family and Audrey found herself drawn by
a sort of fascination to the tomb of the fifth Earl of
Westmoreland who, with his first wife on one side of
him and his second wife on the other, lay with upturned
face awaiting the resurrection where Hhey neither
marry nor are given in marriage.'

There was a special thanksgiving for the happy set-
tlement of the nation's great difficulties, and for the
first time the names of the new King and Queen were
introduced in the prayers, upon which a strange thrill
Beemed to pass through the congregation; but Audrey
observed that one sturdy-looking old gentleman rose
from his knees and closed his prayer-book with a re-
sounding thud, upon which a small school-boy tittered
and the beadle advancing with his staff of office gave the
offending lad a tap on the head, and would evidently have
enjoyed applying the staflf to the knees of the old man.

Then followed the sermon, which it is to be feared
Audrey did not hear at all, for her thoughts would keep
wandering to the great event which was about to change
her whole life.

8o HOPE THE HERMIT

She remembered how greatly Michael would dislike
her marriage with one who had always failed to under-
stand him, and she wondered whether she should be
able to make her husband and her foster-brother the
good friends she would fain have had them to be. It
never once occurred to her that MichaeFs friendship
had developed into love, nor did she dream that while
she sat there in Staindrop church wondering whether
the revelation as to his parentage would in itself be
sufficient to make Henry Brownrigg adopt a different
tone to him, Michael was riding towards Penrith treas-
uring up in his heart every word she had spoken to him
at Eaby Castle, and blind to the beauty of the landscape
because of the inward vision of her face which con-
tinually haunted him.

At the close of the sermon they sang the metrical
version of the 15th psalm, and Audrey thought in her
mind how well the words applied to her lover.

Her confidence in Henrjr^s generosity was boundless,
but it was hard to say upon what she grounded it. Had
she analysed her impressions — ^which needless to say she
never did — she might possibly have found that his size
had something to do with it. She was one of those
girls who reverence mere physical bulk; Skiddaw was
much more to her than Causey Pike because though less
beautiful it was larger. She loved old EoUo the Mas-
tiff because of his huge proportions, trusting him far
more than Fritz the terrier. And she had an instinct
that a man of Henry Brownrigg's build must be also
large-minded and trustworthy.

Her heart beat fast with happy excitement when on
the way back from church he confessed his love to her,
and begged her to spare him a few minutes* private
talk in the walled garden, that he might plead his
cause.

They sat together in the very arbour in which she

HOPE THE HERMIT 8i

had Bat with Michael when, but a few days before, he
had told her of Sir Christopher's revelation; where also,
though she little guessed it, he had been on the point
of telling her of his love, but had choked back the
words, determined that he would bide his time and have
at least a name to offer the woman he loved.

But Audrey had no leisure to think of her foster-
brother at such a moment as this. For was not the man
she loved and admired with her whole heart asking
her to be his wife?

She did not keep him long waiting for his answer,
and in her heart there lurked no faintest shadow of
doubt as to their future happiness. To Henry's failings
she was as yet altogether blind, and the mere fact that
her mother liked him, and that Mr. Noel detested him,
added piquancy to the whole affair and made her ready
to champion him against all the world. Her heart
burnt within her as she remembered that she had once
heard Mr. Noel speak of him as an ambitious and selfish
schemer. Well, there was a wise old proverb which
said, ^ We judge others by ourselves,' and Audrey, who
was no saint but had her share of elfish delight in teas-
ing and baffling and making sport out of those who had
displeased her, looked forward with no slight pleasure
to an encounter with her old tutor on their return to
Lord's Island.

Henry Brownrigg, kneeling beside her, saw the swift
changes in her expressive face and wondered what they
betokened.

^ What are your thoughts, sweetheart? ' he said, rais-
ing her hand to his lips. ^ Why do you frown? '

Audrey broke into a merry laugh.

' I was only thinking of my old tutor at home, — ^you
know he was never one of your likers, but he will have
to change his mind now.'

^That priest?' said Henry Brownrigg bitterly.
6

82 HOPE THE HERMIT

* DonH let him come betwixt us, Audrey, for heaven's I ^

sake/ L

* Why, no, how could he do that? ' said Audrey con- 1^

fidently. ^The day of his power has quite gone by; '|^^

in

01

t3

1

and depend upon it, when he really knows you he will
like you/

Henry Brownrigg shook his head.

' Scarcely that, I think,' he said with a bitter smile.
^But after all we need not come across him much.
When once we are wedded all will be well. I hate to
think that till then you must be under a Papist's roof.'

'Why,' said Audrey, a little startled at his tone.
MTow strangely you speak! You forget how dearly I
love my grandfather. You speak of him as if he were
no Christian! But it is because you do not know him.
When you see how kind, how gentle, how full of charity
he is you will not talk in that hard voice.'

Henry seemed about to speak but he checked himseli
and only smiled in a superior and rather patronizing j
way which in any other man Audrey would have deeply 1^
resented. ;„

Just now, however, she was in the blind stage of^love;
and after all how was it likely that she should trouble
herself about such matters when for the first time she
felt her lover's strong arm round her, when she heard
him lavishing upon her every endearing epithet, and
began faintly to realise what it means to love and to be
loved.

Her face was radiant as they went slowly back to-
gether to the Castle, there to receive her mother's tender
and happy greeting and the congratulations of those
who had had the pleasure of guessing beforehand that a
betrothal was imminent.

Two days later, when the festivities at Eaby came to
an end, Audrey and her mother, attended of course by
Henry Brownrigg, went on their homeward way as far as

1

tt
V
f

HOPE THE HERMIT 83

Penrith, where, according to previous arrangements,
they were to spend a few weeks with some of Mrs. Ead-
cliffe's kinsfolk. The news of the betrothal was there-
fore sent to Lord^s Island by a letter carried by one of
the serving-men, a course which Mrs. Badcliffe greatly
preferred to breaking the news herself to her father-
in-law.

She wrote dutifully and courteously, but dwelt much
on her satisfaction in seeing Audrey betrothed to one
they had long known, a near neighbour, moreover, and
one who held her own views as to religious matters.

It pained her to hurt one so kindly as old Sir Nich-
olas, but she must hold her own and bestow her daugh-
ter as she thought best and in accordance with what
would have been her father^s wishes. She had signed
her name and was about to fold and seal the letter when
an idea suddenly flashed into her mind, and taking up
her pen once more she added a postscript.

^ It may be well to let Michael Derwent know of the
betrothal,^ she wrote. ^Also all relatives and friends
in the neighbourhood that come in your way.^

'I fear the lad cared for her,^ she said to herself
thoughtfully. ^Audrey never seemed even to guess at
it, but there were many things which pointed that way.
Well, he is young — he will get over it. Yet I am sorry
for him nevertheless.'

But just then the church bells began to ring for ser-
vice, and not unnaturally Mrs. Eadcliflfe's thoughts
quickly left Michael Derwent and his trouble, and
turned instead to a much more cheering idea. Wed-
ding bells — the bells of St. Kentigem's at Crosthwaite
were pealing gaily, and down the churchyard path
walked Audrey and Henry Brownrigg,

CHAPTER X

Recollections of Michasl Derwent

That Lady Lawson should have chosen that precise
time for falling ill seemed to me hard lines, for to be
forced to quit Eaby Castle, to leave the coast clear for
Henry Brownrigg just when my hopes were highest,
seemed intolerable. As we rode on through the dismal
night, I found myself wishing that my patron had been
a less affectionate and anxious husband, or that he had
been a rigid Sabbatarian, when no doubt we should have
remained until Monday as Sir Christopher's guests.
Above all I wished myself a free agent, not a great man's
secretary, and at thought of the small discomforts of the
situation I fell to remembering the injury my father
had done to me in leaving me all these years to the
mercy of fate. How cruelly unfair was the treatment
he had dealt out to me in the past! And was it likely
that he would be willing now to remedy the wrong as
far as might be, and own me as his heir? Sir Christo-
pher Vane would doubtless do what he could to urge
this course upon him, but was it wise to hope much from
a parent who in the past had proved himself so cold-
hearted and callous? Surely I had been a fool to hope
anything from such a man.

Then back into my mind there came the remembrance
of Audrey's words in the arbour, how she had argued in
her tender womanly way that he might be only too
glad of a chance of righting the great wrong he had

HOPE THE HERMIT 85

wrought years ago. And from her arguments I fell to
thinking of the flush of excitement that had risen to her
face, and the sweet sympathy of her eyes as I told her
my tale. It was from such thoughts that Sir Wilfrid's
laughing voice recalled me.

* Art asleep lad? ' he asked turning towards me with
a smile. ^ Three times have I spoken and never an
answer can I get.'

I stammered an apology, but he only laughed good-
humouredly.

* Nay, lad, His easy to see that you left your heart be-
hind you at Raby. And in truth were I your age I should
have done the same. As to that pragmatical and hu-
mourless Under-Sheriflf,I scarce think you need fear him
as a rival. The girl has surely wit enough to see through
his pretensions, and to despise his vanity. Let us but
unearth this father of yours, and get you your rights,
and I woidd back you against ten Henry Brownriggs.'

There was something so comfortable and cheering in
these words that my fears were for the time lulled, but
when late on the Sunday we reached Penrith and after a
hearty supper went to bed, the fates were less kind to
me, and all night I was pursued by a horrid vision of the
TJnder-Sheriflf twice as big as he was in real life. Every-
where he followed me with that hateful superior smile
of his, and everywhere he led Audrey like a child by
the hand.

' Only one can win in this game,' he said to me with
a sneer, ' and foundlings are handicapped.'

I raged at this, and could feel the blood tingling in
my veins as in the old days at school when I had fought
him. But what broke my heart was that Audrey turned
and looked at me with her great grey eyes, and in them I
read a sort of curiosity. ^ How are you taking it? ' the
eyes seemed to say. ^ Is it true, as my lover declares,
that you really cared for me? '

86 HOPE THE HERMIT

At that I rushed away from both pursuers, and throw-
ing myself down beside the Derwent — for always Bor-
rowdale formed the back-ground of my dreams — ^I fell
a-sobbing and so woke up, shaken and exhausted and a
prey to the most deadly depression.

In very low spirits we went on our journey that Mon-
day morning, but when we reached Isel Hall the presence
of serious illness in the household drove out every other
thought; indeed for days it was impossible to think of
anything but of the shadow of death that hung over ns
like a pall. On the Thursday, however, this anxiety
abated. Lady Lawson began to mend and the doctor
no longer waited long hours in the house as though ex-
pecting a deadly combat with the foe he was always
trying to cheat of his prey, but rode back cheerfully to
Cockermouth to see how it fared with his other patients.

By the Friday morning we had settled down into the
ordinary routine of work, and I was doing accounts in
the library while Sir Wilfrid at the other side of the
table was busy over some legal documents when a ser-
vant entered and handed me a letter. I had not so
many correspondents that I could long remain in doubt
as to whom the letter was from, and indeed Mr. Noel's
handwriting was well known to me.

I don^t know what instinct warned me, but in an
instant I knew that the letter contained news of Au-
drejr^s betrothal to Henry Brownrigg. My heart
seemed all at once to turn to stone; mechanically I broke
the seal and read the letter. It was short and ran as
follows: —

<Mt Dbab Michael:

I regret to say that we have received a letter from Penrith
in which Mrs. Radcliffe tells Sir Nicholas that her daughter
was betrothed to Mr. Brownrigg on Sunday last at Raby Castle.
The marriage is highly distasteful to Sir Nicholas but he has

HOPE THE HERMIT 87

no power to forbid it. I am anxious to see you if you are able
to visit Lord^s Island within the next fortnight, and you will
find us quite at leisure, for Mrs. Radcliffe will remain for two
or possibly three weeks with her kinsfolk at Penrith. Sir
Mcholas begs to be remembered to Sir Wilfrid Lawson.

I remain, yours faithfully,

Augustine Nobl.

Written at Lord's Island, Derwentwater.

To Mb. Michael Dbbwsnt,
Care of Sir Wilfrid Lawson,
At Isel Hall, near Cockermouth.'

I folded the letter, and taking up my quill began to
write on a scrap of paper that lay near me. To go on
with my patron's accounts was at that moment out of
the question, yet the act of mechanically writing down
any words which came to hand, helped me to control
myself, kept me from yielding to that passion of despair
which sweeps from the man who abandons himself to
it all faith, all hope, all power of endurance. ^ That way
madness lies.^

There was it is true not much sense in the disjointed
letters and words I forced my pen to write on that blank
sheet of paper, but for the time they availed, they tided
Ine over the first horrible moments of agony, and gave
Jne time to rally. After a while I found myself writing
down some words of Shakspere's which — ^I know not
why — ^had floated through my brain.

^ Love give me strength! and strength shall help
afford.^

To this thought of strength I clung like a drowning
man to a plank. This disastrous love of mine which,
it seemed, had been all a mistake, should not drag me
down into tjiose depths of despair and ruin which
threatened to close above my head; I would wrest from
it a strength which might yet fit me to serve Audrey in
some far future. And with increasing steadiness I

88 HOPE THE HERMIT

wrote again and again the words, ^ hove give m
strength I * as though they had been a charm.

'You have had news? ' said Sir Wilfrid, glancing at
me.

I handed him Mr. Noel's letter, and was grateful for
his silence. When at length he did speak it was not to
make any comment on the letter but to send me up to
the withdrawing room on some errand — a task which I
was glad enough to execute, though as I went up the
long slippery flight of polished wooden steps I had an
odd feeling that my limbs were not my own.

Gaining the head of the staircase I started back, for
coming to meet me I saw what for a moment I took to
be a wraith. It was the figure of a young man dressed
in brown and wearing a brown periwig; his face was
quite colourless, his pale lips were set in a straight line,
his eyes seemed as though they had looked into hell.

The next moment I saw with a shock of astonishment
that the wraith was nothing but my own reflection in a
tall mirror that himg from the wall.

*You shall at any rate play your part better than
that! ' I muttered, with an angry glance at the reflec-
tion. ' Is it for you to be looking like a love-sick swain
in a penny ballad, when in half an hour you must be
dining with all the household? '

The thought of the smoking joint on the board made
my stomach turn, and the dread of the curious eyes sent
a cold sh'udder through me. But where was the use of
stopping to think of such things? I delivered Sir Wil-
frid's message and went down once more to him in the
library.

'I have a letter for the Vicar of Crosthwaite,' said
my patron, glancing at me quickly as I took my place at
the writing-table. ' It will be as well, I think, if you ride
over with it this afternoon. You can sleep at Herbert* 6
Isle and bring me back word as to the damage done by

HOPE THE HERMIT 89

Tuesda/s stonn. This summer^ if all is well, I think
of enlarging the house there; you can talk matters over
with the steward/

I thanked him, and asked if there was any more writ-
ing to be done.

* Nothing more now/ he replied. ^ Start when you
please; and look you, Michael! go and have a talk with
that old tutor of yours, for he is a shrewd man. If I
were you I would tell him all that you learnt from Sir
Cliristopher Vane.'

I promised to do so and hurried away to my room in
the pele tower, there to make ready for the ride to Kes-
wick.

Never had man a more kindly patron, and I knew well
enough that the errand to Crosthwaite and the con-
fabulations with the steward might very well have
waited. It was nothing more than a device to give me
a breathing space in which to regain my bearings.

The pele tower was by far the most ancient part of
Isel Hall; it stood at one comer of the battlemented
iiouse and my room was in the upper part of it. It was
but sparsely furnished, but whatever it contained of
interest was in some way associated with Audrey Had-
cliffe. Here I kept my few worldly possessions — the
birds' eggs we had collected together as children; the
books we had shared; and one or two trifles of needle-
work wrought by her hands years ago. Looking back
now it seemed to me that there had never been a time
in my life when I had not loved her; she had been mine
from the beginning, mine years and years before this
Under-Sheriff had ever seen her. Who was he that
he should come betwixt us now?

At that thought pain changed to a blind hatred and
resentment that by contrast seemed for the time a relief.
I hurried down the tower stairs at a headlong pace, sad-
dled nay horse and rode swiftly away from Isel with the

90 HOPE THE HERMIT

thought of Henry Brownrigg ever present in my mini
Had she given herself to one more worthy of her I
might have borne it patiently, but that she should have
been caught by the wiles of a man of fine presence and
handsome features, seemed intolerable. For well I knew
that Henry Brownrigg^s mind was of the narrowest,
that all his petty prejudices would ere long irritate her
large-minded nature, that his insufferable conceit and
f ussiness would chafe Audrey as nothing else could haie
done. Kespectable he might be, but it was with the
heartless Pharisaical respectability that only repulses,
and it sickened me to think that Audrey should be tied
for life to such an one.

We were past Cockermouth now, and as we galloped
along by the shore of Bassenthwaite, the fresh air and
the exercise invigorated me, yet at the same time seemed
to fan the fire of raging hatred that burned in my hearty
My chief hope was that he might have returned to Mill-
beck Hall, that we might casually meet, and that I
might have the chance of picking a quarrel with him
and calling him out. It would surely not be hard to
find some pretext for fighting? I knew his haunts in
Keswick pretty well, and that evening I would do my
best to make a duel inevitable.

Having left Sir Wilfrid's letter at the Crosthwaite
Vicarage I turned my horse's head towards the little
market town, still brooding over my schemes with re-
gard to Henry Brownrigg, when suddenly a mischievous
lad in a smock frock leapt out of the hedge with a shrill
war-whoop which terrified Hotspur and sent him tear-
ing down the lane at full gallop. I had been riding
carelessly with slack reins and now found it impossible
to stop the horse. On we rushed at lightning speed,
when to my horror I saw a little troop of children filing
out of a dame-school at the side of the road; they paused
and looked with stupefied faces at the runaway horse;

HOPE THE HERMIT 91

in another moment we should be upon them. With a
desperate effort I dragged at the right rein and put
Hotspur at the hedge; he just cleared it, while I lost my
seat and was thrown violently to the ground. How long
I lay there stunned I have no idea, probably not many
minutes, but I seemed to wake up in a quite unknown
world.

I was lying on a smooth lawn in a garden; close by,
a very neat, box-edged path led through a vista of bare
and gnarled apple-trees, and walking up the path came
a soberly dressed old gentleman whose face was the most
peaceful it has ever been my lot to see.

' I must have died,^ I thought to myself; * these must
be the ^^ gardens and the gallant walks ^^ the hymn
speaks of. That is how men look in heaven, quiet and
kindly and with no shadow of care and self-seeking;
yet the cut of his doublet might be better, there^s room
for improvement there.^

The man with the peaceful face had drawn near by
this time; he did not raise his hat or salute me in any
way whatever, but just bent down and looked into my
face. As for me I was still too much bewildered to wish
to move or speak.

* Friend,^ he said at last, ' wilt thou walk to my house
and rest? or shall I send for my servants to carry thee? *

I sat up, then with some difficulty struggled to my
feet, not feeling any pain but with a strange dizziness
in my head. Perhaps this was the natural effect of
waking in a quite different world.

My new friend drew my arm into his, and we walked
down the trimly-kept path imder the apple trees; the
box bordering seemed natural enough, but beyond it
there grew some curious yellow and puce-coloured
plants, that I had never seen before; it seemed to me
wonderful that such fair flowers should bloom so early
in the year; till I remembered that I was in a place

\

98 HOPE THE HERMIT

where time had ceased to exist. This thought^ and also
perhaps the moving, made my brain feel in a whirl; my
eyes grew dim so that I could only leave it to my com-
panion to guide me.

He led me into a house and made me lie down on a
couch, where being still giddy and shaken I was glad
enough to stay quietly. It was not apparently the cus-
tom in this place to ply one with questions, and there
was a strange restfulness in the man^s friendly silence.

^ Take this cordial,^ he said to me after a timeless
interval, during which I had lain with closed eyes, bask-
ing as it were in the quiet.

I took the silver cup he placed in my hand and
thanked him.

* The horse is not injured,^ he remarked, ^ my servant
has put it in the stable, so be at rest on that point.^

The cordial had revived me, and now these startling
words thoroughly roused me, for somehow I had never
fancied that dear old Hotspur would go to heaven.

'What has happened, sir? — I thought I was out of
the world — ^yet you speak of the horse? ^ I stammered,
looking in perplexity at my friend. ' What is this place?
and how did I come here, sir? ^

' The place is Hye Hill, and I am Nathaniel EadcUffe,
one of the Society of Friends. Walking in my garden
this afternoon I heard in the road sounds as of a run-
away horse and the shouting of many voices; then over
my hedge leapt a chestnut steed, and its rider was flung
with violence on to my lawn.^

' I hope Hotspur did no mischief to your garden, sir? '
I said. 'I put him at the hedge to save the children in the
lane who were too much scared to get out of the way.'

'He did no harm, for the gardener quickly caught
him, but I fear, my friend, thou thyself art more injured
than at first we thought. I see thou art suflEering great
pain.^

HOPE THE HERMIT 93

I could not reply, for it took all my manhood to
strangle the sobs that rose in my throat. As long as I
live I shall never forget the horrible revulsion of feeling
that overwhelmed me as I realised that I was back in
this dreary worl^ in which all things seemed going so
hopelessly wrong.

The Quaker put his hand on mine, probably to feel
the pulse and judge of my state. His cool quiet touch
had something soothing in it, and I gripped his hand
hard in a way which must, I think, have astonished him.

^ Have patience,^ he said. * The sharpest pain cannot
last long; God allows long aches but only short agonies.'

I wondered if his words applied to mental pain as
well as bodily, he looked like a man who had lived
through both, and this gave his sayings a curious force.
Perhaps that is why the prophets of old, nay of all ages,
have led such troubled lives. They could not tell forth
the truth with any force till they had lived through
mxLch tribulation. It was suffering that fitted them for
the goodly fellowship of the prophets.

'I will send for a surgeon, maybe he could relieve
thee,' said the Quaker.

For answer I broke into a wild fit of laughter, which
was discourteous, but for the life of me I could not help
it. '

I struggled to my feet and paced the room like one
possessed.

^Why, sir, what could a leech do for me?' I cried.
' It is no bodily pain I feel. It is the torture of being
in this hateful world when I thought I was well out of it.
It's the torture of knowing that a rival whom I hate
and despise is to win and keep and drag down to his
own level the best and the most beautiful woman in all
Cumberland. She little knows what he really is or she
would never dream of wedding him. But I'll not live
to see her ruin her happiness; somehow I can surely

94 HOPE THE HERMIT

pick a quarrel with him. He is a better Bwordsman
than I — ^but I shall at least have the pleasure of fighting
him/

^Wouldst thou break one of Christ's commandments,
to gratify thy carnal lust? * said the Quaker gravely.

* Christ would never approve of this marriage! ' I said
vehemently.

'Maybe that is true/ replied Nathaniel Eadcliffe;
' indeed if thou dost refer to the marriage of which I
heard some rumour to-day betwixt my yoimg kins-
woman Audrey Eadcliffe and the XJnder-Sheriff I incline
to agree with thee. Little true happiness is Uke to
come of such a union.'

'You are her kinsman, sir, I had forgot that. I
remember now to have heard that you were at length
released from gaol by King James. I saw you years
ago at Cockermouth when all the people were hooting
the Quakers.'

' Why, then thou art most like the lad that didst lay
hold of Barton's stick to save my pate,' said the Quaker
with a smile. ' Long ago as it is I recall thy face and
am glad to see thee again. I trust that the days of
persecution are at an end. They were hard to endure, as
hard perchance as this pain that now tries thee so griev-
ously, but we have grown strong through them, and so
mayst thou, my friend, an thou wilt follow the guidance
of the Spirit, and hold down thy brute instincts.'

*If you knew the XJnder-Sheriff's overbearing arro-
gance, sir, you would long to fight him yourself,' I saii
hotly. * It might put off the marriage, moreover, for he
is so good a swordsman that he would most likely make
worm's meat of me, and Audrey would scarce wed the
murderer of her foster-brother.'

He laid his hand on my shoulder and drew me back
once more to the couch.

' Eest, my friend, and quietly think what thy words

HOPE THE HERMIT 95

truly mean. Do nothing rashly^ but wait for the lead-
ing of the Spirit/

I think if he had preached at me I should have
scoffed^ or if he had argued with me I should have
rushed from the house^ but when he drew me back into
that attitude of repose^ and sat down himself at a little
distance in an old high-backed chair, there was some-
thing in the extreme gentleness of his manner that I
could not resist. There was absolute silence in the
room save for the ticking of the tall eight-day clock, and
the gentle flickering of the flames on the hearth. I
wondered vaguely if my companion would speak.
Should we stay there for hours in this extraordinary
silence? What was the good of it all? How cruelly it
contrasted with the tumult of my mind, with the angry
heat of the blood that pricked and throbbed in my veins.
My eyes rested on the fine face of Nathaniel Eadcliffe
and for a time I forgot my own misery in wondering
how a man though pale and emaciated by the unhealthy
life he had led in prison could yet bear such an extraor-
dinary look of serenity and peace. I shall never forget
the expression of calm, patient waiting that was on his
face. Most clearly he expected an inner voice to speak
to him. And after all what could be more natural?
Does God command us to pray and then intend that
we shall spare not a minute to listen to what he will
say to us? Of the duties of prayer and praise I had
been taught ever since I was a child, but no one had
said a word about waiting for the guidance of the Inner
Light.

Well, we naturally tend to follow the example of those
we are with, and the influence of that calm, serene old
man had much weight with me. I, too, began to wait
expectantly. By degrees the angry heat died out of me,
and I reflected with a gleam of satisfaction that Nathan-
iel EadcUffe had agreed with me that Christ could

96 HOPE THE HERMIT

hardly approve of this proposed marriage. Would He
not then bring it to naught? That might or might
not be, for evils were unquestionably for a time per-
mitted; ^ short agonies/ as the Quaker had called them,
certainly found place in this sad worid which I would
so gladly have quitted. I fell to waiting again, but for
a long, long time nothing came to me, only I was con-
scious of the slow ticking of the clock in the comer.
I could almost have smiled, for to my fancy the pendu-
lum seemed to beat time to the words, ^ Choose well/
* Choose well.*

The words seemed a mockery. What choice was left
me? This hideous bit of suffering had been thrust into
my life and somehow I had to endure it.

Then back into my mind flashed the line from Shak-
spere which had come to me that morning at Isel: ^ Lorn
give me strength, and strength shall help afford,' I
began to see that there was a weak way and a strong
way of bearing this heavy blow, — ^that it might cripple
and mar my life or, if I would, might make me strong
with a strength which does not come to those who hve
lapped in ease. What if I could come out of this fiery
furnace as Nathaniel Eadcliffe had come out of his long
imprisonment?

The thing that happened then I cannot explain, but
suddenly all the pain and tumult in my heart was
hushed. An inner stillness, like the outer stillness of
the room, fell upon me, and out of this heavenly calm
a voice spoke in my heart, — spoke the words that ended
my desolation, and gave me the leading I craved, that
comforted even the old soreness as to my birth.

It seemed to me a miracle when, a few minutes later,
Nathaniel Eadcliffe quietly rose to his feet and repeated
the very words that had been spoken to me.

His manner was slow and gentle; he seemed like a
child repeating a message as he began, —

HOPE THE HERMIT 97

' " / "have called thee by thy name. Thou art mine.**
It is laid upon me to speak these words to thee, friend,
and to bid thee be loyal to Him whose love is the unfail-
ing fount of strength/

Then he sat down again in the high-backed chair
and stillness fell upon us once more. But the wish
for vengeance and the craving for death had died out
of me, and I stood on the threshold of a new life.

CHAPTER XI

Ok the Saturday morning, as Sir Nicholas Radcliffe
rose from the table at the end of breakfast, his chaplain
put a question to him. Throughout the meal there had
been silence, for the old knight was in the lowest of
spirits, and the priest's busy brain had been at work
on an interesting problem.

* Sir,' he said, ' is your brother Mr. John RadcUffe
still in Prance?'

*He spoke in his last letter of coming to England
in the spring,' said Sir Nicholas, ^ and by this time he
may be in London for aught I know.'

* Might it not be well that he should know this news
as to Mistress Audrey's betrothal?' said the priest.
* 'Tis a matter that cannot be without interest to him/

* True,' said Sir Nicholas, ^ since he will succeed at
my death, he has doubtless a right to know the un-
welcome news. I would that he or any man had the
power to forbid the match.'

The priest's shrewd, kindly face was over-clouded
now; the thought of Audrey's marriage to Henry
Brownrigg was abhorrent to him for many reasons. He
was really fond of his pupil and was grieved to think of
the life she was likely to lead with a man so overbearing
and selfish as the XJnder-Sheriff. Then, too, he sin-
cerely desired her marriage with the son of Sir Francis
Salkeld, a Catholic gentleman of good position and
excellent character. And deep down in his heart there
was one thought keenly painful to a really good man,

HOPE THE HERMIT 99

and that was that — ^his lips being silencefl by the knowl-
edge that he had gained in the confessional — ^he was
obliged to keep quiet^ and see one for whom he had
real affection placed in a most unfair position^ and ren-
dered now utterly useless in the game. He was heartily
sorry for Michael, who by some perverse fate seemed
always to be the one to get the worst of things, and
through no fault of his own to pay the penalty of other
people^s sins and mistakes.

The question as to Mr. John Eadcliffe's return to
England had been prompted by a strong desire both
to check the Brownrigg marriage and to help Michael to
his rights, but no one knew better than the priest how
difScult the course he proposed to steer would probably
prove. For many years, the whole truth as to Michael's
parentage had been known to him, and again and again
he had been forced to act a living lie. Long ago John
Badcliffe had in confession revealed to him all the de-
tails of his first marriage, the death of his wife at
Watendlath and his own abandonment of the child in
Borrowdale. At that time Mr. Noel had been living
in London and it was not till the so-called Popish plot
had driven numbers of Catholics into hiding that he left
his work in the south of England and found shelter with
old Sir Nicholas Eadcliffe on Derwentwater. Here, in
Audrey's little foster-brother, the Borrowdale foundling,
he speedily recognised John Eadcliffe's deserted child,
and though his lips were necessarily sealed he wrote
most urgently to Michael's father, strongly counselling
him to acknowledge his son.

His letters however proved of no avail. John Ead-
cliffe had escaped to France and saw no reason to burden
himself with any additional trouble or expense; more-
over he shrank from the reproaches of his second wife
and her kinsfolk, and determined to let things be. The
priest now began to think that it would be well to

73S4a^

loo HOPE THE HERMIT

undertake a journey to London to seek out the heir to
the estate and to rouse him to a sense of his duty in this
matter. He hoped that when all was made pubUc and
Henry Brownrigg realised that Audrey would not suc-
ceed to the Goldrill estate on the death of her great-
imcle he would readily consent to abandon the pro-
posed alliance with the Radcliffes, and in that case
either Michael's union with Audrey might solve the
difficulty and end matters happily, or Audrey could be
married to the heir of Sir Francis Salkeld, as proved
best and most desirable for the general good.

He was pacing up and down in the garden, still
musing over these schemes, when he was startled to see
the figure of Michael himself at the further end of the
path. The priest had time as he approached to take in
every detail of his appearance. He looked years older
than when they had last met, but notwithstanding his
pallor and the unmistakeable signs of a great struggle
passed through, there was something vigorous and
strong in his bearing which delighted the priest. He
had had to deal with many love-sick youths in his time,
but had never come across one who met his troubles
precisely in this fashion.

* You are early at Derwentwaterl ' he exclaimed with
a cheery greeting. ^ Hast had my letter? '

* Yes, sir, it reached Isel yesterday,' said Michael, and
his voice betrayed more than his face, for it had a curi-
ous note in it that is only heard in the voice of one who
suffers. ^ I should have seen you last night, for I rode
into Crosthwaite with a letter from Sir Wilfrid Lawson,
but I was thrown from my horse and stunned, so got no
further than Keswick.'

'None the worse, I hope,' said the priest, ^though now
I look at you 'tis clear you have had a shaking. I hear,
by the bye, from Sir Nicholas that you had good news
while you were at Eaby Castle/

HOPE THE HERMIT loi

' Good news? ^ said Michael, looking bewildered, for
it seemed to him a mockery to speak of anything being
jood just then.

' Ay, to be sure,^ said the priest cheerfully; * Mrs.
RadcUffe said in her letter that Sir Christopher Vane
oiew of your parentage, and that all doubt as to your
laving been bom in wedlock was at an end/

' Yes,* said Michael, ^ that is clear, but I don't know
ihat the knowledge will avail much/

^ !N"onsense,* said the priest. * It may avail you more
than you think and you should leave no stone unturned
to get at further evidence and to learn the whole truth.
What did you hear from Sir Christopher? '

Michael repeated what had passed between them.

' I have a notion,' he said, * that from the description
he gave it must have been up at Watendlath that I was
bom. He spoke of coming down into Borrowdale at
night, and that he had much difl&culty in making his
way to the left to a farm where they had stabled the
horses. That fits in with what we already know as to
the two gentlemen who left their horses at Longthwaite;
and in the meantime my father must have walked along
towards the Bowder stone till he came to the place
where I was found by Sir Wilfrid and Dickon.'

* If I were you,' said the priest, ^ I would go to Wa-
tendlath and see what you can discover from the good
folk up there. What do you say to making a day of
it among the hills? Nothing could clear your brain
better after your tumble of yesterday. Come, go out
with me. We will walk first to Seathwaite where I have
to visit a sick man, and afterwards we will work our
way up to Watendlath and learn what we can as to the
past.'

Michael fell in very readily with this plan, and was
grateful to his old tutor for the discreet silence he pre-
served as to Audrey. He tried hard to rouse himself

I02 HOPE THE HERMIT

into taking interest in the research which had once
meant so much to him, but all his future had become
blank and empty; he could only hold fast to the thought
that had come to him at Hye Hill the day before, that
his life belonged to One who was actually within him,
and that through weal and through woe he had to follow
the guidance of that Inner Light.

The walk would have been a silent one had it de-
pended on Michael to find topics for conversation, but
the priest with rare skill and Idndliness kept up a cheery
flow of such chat as he thought best suited to draw hi
pupil away from dwelling over much on his troubles.
He talked of his own youth, of his training at St. Omer,
of his life in London, of adventures that had befallen
him as he crossed the Alps years ago in a pilgrimage
to Eome. So that it was not until they had reached
Seathwaite, and Michael was left for an hour to his own
devices, that he had much leisure for remembrance.
The cloud quickly fell upon him then, however, and as
he wandered on to the foot of the Styhead Pass every-
thing in the landscape seemed to harmonise only too
well with the utter dreariness that oppressed him. The
grey amphitheatre of rugged hills, the foaming white
stream which he had crossed lower down in the valley,
the stunted, leafless mountain-ash tree which seemed
the only living thing within sight, made a picture that
for desolation could hardly have been surpassed. He
threw himself on the rocks by a tiny waterfall that
went splashing down beside the mountain-ash; the dull
aching at his heart seemed to creep all over his physical
frame as he rested his throbbing head on the grey
boulder nearest him. He wondered whether Jacob had
felt half as desolate and weary on that night long ago
when the stones had been his pillow.

Presently he fell asleep, and like Jacob dreamed a
dream. Some one bent over him and kissed him on the

HOPE THE HERMIT X03

forehead^ and looking up qnickly he saw the face that
he had learnt to know so well from the miniature — ^his
mother's face. Its tender yet strong sjrmpathy seemed
to fill him with new energy.

' Your work awaits you I * she said, and he started up
from sleep and looked roimd in a bewildered way.

The vision had faded, only in the bare moimtain-ash
tree there was a robin singing its cheerful morning
fiong, and revelling in a brief gleam of sunshine which
Bwept over the gloomy grey of the hills.

He had no notion how long he had been asleep, and
fearing to keep Mr. Noel beyond the appointed time he
vent back to Seathwaite, his mind still haunted by the
loveliness of the face he had Just seen.

The priest did not keep him waiting but came
promptly out of the little stone cottage where the sick
man lived, directly his step was heard without.

' I shall have to leave you to go to Watendlath alone/
he said. ^ For Jo Milbum is in a critical state and his
wife worn out with watching. I cannot leave them
yet.'

And so it chanced that Michael made his way alone
up from Eosthwaite to Watendlath and, early in the
afternoon, climbed the steps leading to the door of
Wilson's farm and knocked for admittance. There was
little journeying about in these days, and as often as
not people in the next hamlet did not know each other.
Although Watendlath was such a short distance from
the place where Michael had spent the greater part of
his life he had never before seen the face of the elderly
woman in clean white mutch and snowy kerchief who
opened the door to him and inquired what he needed.

His tale was soon told, and Mary Wilson, who had
listened in silence to all that he had heard at Raby,
gave an exclamation of heartfelt interest and recogni-
tion as he showed her the miniature.

:^

k

104 HOPE THE HERMIT

All her caution and northern reserve were scattered
by the sight.

* Aw to be sure! *T is the bonnie leddy hersel'. An'
you are as like her^ sir^ as like can be^ and reet glad am I
to think that no mischance befell ye the night the gen-
tleman carried ye off in such haste/ t^s

^Did you ever learn his name?^ asked Michael, fj^^
eagerly.

^ No, sir, though I asked the leddy mair then once,
but she just shook her head. And after she had deed
and you were carried off I called after the gentleman
to ask him, but the wind was blawin', and awa in the
distance cam* the sound of the " bar-foot stag ** and the
hounds, and I was forced to shut the door.'

'It was at night then?* asked Michael.

* Oh, ay, sir! and I niver fairly saw the gentleman's
face, he was in sair haste, and after going in to see the
corp* he just bade me wrap a cloak aboot ye, and laid
some gold on the table for the buryin* and was gone be-
fore I reetly knew what he was aboot. ... HI
fitted was he to tak* care of a babe, or a wife either for
that matter. And the bonny leddy vowed with her last
breath that she was his true weddit wife, though *t was
plain to see that he'd broke his vows and had done newt
to comfort and cherish her. But there I Mony a man
will swear those words glib enoo* in kirk, and niver give
the matter a thought agin. They wouldna treat a horse
with as little care as their ain weddit wife often enoo'.
There's ain thing ye should have, sir,' she added, going
to an oaken chest and searching diligently among ite
contents. ' When we cam' to make the leddy ready for
her buryin' we found this.'

She handed to him a copy of the ^Imitation of Christy
and, eagerly opening it, Michael read the inscription on
the flyleaf.

' Lucy Carleton. Her Booke. Penrith. 1666/

HOPE THE HERMIT 105

'Why, here is the name clearly enough!' he exclaimed^
i^eading the words aloud.

* Mappen that would be her maiden name/ said the
shrewd north country woman. ' *T was in the summer
of the year 1668 as I mind weel that she died in this
hoose^ an' she told me her ain seP she had but been
ten months weddit. God forgive me! I doubted her
at first and thought 't was just the auld story over agin
of a young girl an' a braw faced man that had deceived
lier; but I never doubted after she deed. There was
"truth — God's truth in her look as she said her last
"words, an' the strength of her I shall niver forget, for
It frightened me in one just passin' awa. She made a
heautiful corp', sir. You wad like mebbe to see the
Toom yonder; 't was in there she deed.'

Michael felt a choking sensation in his throat as he
glanced round the room.

* And her husband? what of him? ' he asked. ' What
sort of man was he?'

* Aboot your ain height, sir, he was, an' as I think
with light hair, but he kept his face well-nigh hidden.
As for me I thought him stem and hard, but belike 't
was the shock of seein' his wife dead. An' angry I was
with him for takin' the laal bam — ^that's you, sir —
oot into the cauld. Howiver there was no gainsayin'
him; he was off wid the babe under his cloak before I
could rightly understand that he meant it in sober
earnest, and nowt more have I heard or seen of him
since.'

'Where was my mother buried?' asked Michael.

'Over at Wythbum, sir. 'T was the way they had
travelled from, and my husband he made inquiries
but could learn nowt. They had been just travellers
passin' through the country, foreign to these parts, I
take it.'

This was all that Michael could gather, and having

io6 HOPE THE HERMIT

thanked Mary Wilson^ and accepted the meal she ho
pitably offered him, he tramped down to Derwentwat
once more, and, borrowing a boat from Mounsey, tl
miller of Lowdore, rowed himself out to Sir Wilfrid
snmmer house on St. Herbert's Isle.

CHAPTEE Xn

AuDBEY Badcuppe had in the meantime been pass-
ig a very quiet interval at Penrith with her mother's
insfolk. The first excitement of her betrothal was
ver and she had settled down into a state of dreamy
ontent, liking well enough to work at the store of new
arments which her mother was helping her to prepare,
nd wondering in her own heart whether in their old
ge she and Henry Brownrigg would be as quarrelsome
. couple as her great-aunt and great-uncle Aglionby.

Surely Henry could never so flatly contradict her, or
idopt Uncle Aglionby's invariable retort —

^Nonsense, madam, you know nothing whatever about
it; ply your needle and hold your tongue/

If he did, could she have had the patience to go on
neekly making his shirt, while he blundered over some
Jetail which a woman with her quicker insight would
lave had the skill to avoid? Certainly Aunt Aglionby
evenged herself by most withering remarks when her
Usband was ruefully obliged to admit himself mistaken,
^here was something indescribably irritating about her
tnile and her — ^ Just as I told you, sir/

Still the old people were fond of each other after a
ashion, and apart they would have been utterly miser-
ble; but Audrey, who had seen scarcely anything of
aarried life, began to perceive that it was not all un-
lixed bliss, and that even these old kinsfolk who had
ived together for fifty years had still to make large
llowance for each other^s little infirmities. She was

io8 HOPE THE HERMIT

sitting one morning in the parlour busy with a piece of
fine embroidery when her mother entered with an open
letter in her hand.

^I have heard from an old friend of my mother's,
Audrey/ she said, ^ a Mrs. Simpson who is visiting her
kinsman, Mr. Carleton, not far from Penrith. She has
but just heard of our being in the neighbourhood, and
Mr. Carleton's coach waits below to take us back to
visit them. Put on your best sacque, child, and let ns
come at once, for the horses must not be kept waiting
in this cold east wind.^

^ Who is Mr. Carleton, ma'am? ' asked Audrey, glanc-
ing towards the hearth where Aunt Aglionby was busy
with her spinning wheel.

'He lives at Carleton Manor, a mile from Penrith/
said the old lady. *But he is a strange-tempered
old gentleman and crippled with gout; the Simp-
sons are the only visitors who ever stay at the manor
now.*

'Did not his daughter and heiress marry Thomas
Simpson?' asked Mrs. Eadcliffe.

"To be sure she did; they had her safely wedded
when she was but a child of fourteen lest she should
follow the example of her elder sister,' said Mrs. Ag-
lionby. ' The poor old man has never got over that
scandal.'

Audrey would have liked to stay and hear more, for
Aunt Aglionby seemed in a chatty mood, but she was
obliged to hasten away and dress, and though she had
intended to ask her mother what the scandal was that
had so disturbed old Mr. Carleton she forgot all about it
when they were rattling along in the cumbrous old
coach, nor did it recur to her mind until Mrs. Simpson,
a pleasant-looking elderly lady, led her into the room
where, half lost in a huge grandfather chair with cush-
ioned sides and arms to it, sat a withered, wrinkled old

HOPE THE HERMIT 109

man in a purple coat^ with hia gouty foot on a leg-rest,
and that ominous single upright line between the eyes
which betokens a stormy temper.

He received Mrs. Badcliffe with an effort at courtesy,
but either a twinge of gout or some painful memory
made him glare at Audrey as she curtseyed in response
to his slight bow.

^ What! madam! ^ he said, turning to Mrs. Badcliffe,
* do I imderstand that your daughter has arrived at
this age and is not yet married? That's a mistake — a
great mistake.'

* Audrey is betrothed to Mr. Brownrigg the Under-
Sheriff,' said Mrs. Eadcliffe, amazed, but secretly
amused, at this very plain speaking.

^Get her married quick, madam,' growled the old
man. ^ Delays are dangerous. I would have ell maids
wedded at fourteen, before they have time to get foolish
notions id their heads or try to take the bit between
their teeth.'

Here Mrs. Simpson contrived to put in a word which
turned the conversation, and soon after the butler an-
nounced that dinner was served. The meal proved a
long and very dull function and Audrey sighed with
relief when they returned to the cooler atmosphere of
the withdrawing room. Here a pretty little boy of
seven years old joined them, Mrs. Simpson's small
grandson, Tom; and Audrey, who could always make
herself happy with children, soon induced the little
fellow to cast aside his stiff company manner and to
chatter away freely.

' Show your doves to Miss Eadcliffe, Tom,' said his
grandmother, not unwilling to get rid of the two
younger members of the family and to enjoy a quiet
talk with Mrs. Eadcliffe.

And Audrey, willingly enough, went off hand in hand
with the child, who led her into a far away wing where

no HOPE THE HERMIT

in the big deserted nursery his wicker cage of doves
occupied the wide window-seat.

^ Did you bring this big cage with you from home?*
asked Audrey.

^ No, the doves live here/ said the child. * But every
year I come here and see them, sometimes with my
mother, sometimes with grandmother. I should like it
if it werenH for the ghost.'

Audrey laughed merrily.

* Why, Tom, there are no such things as ghosts,' she
said. ^ Come! I am sure you never saw one.'

^No,' said the chi^d doubtfully, ^I don't think it
comes into the house, but Betty — ^that's the housemaid
— she says that any night you may see her walking in
the pleasance and crying! '

*See Betty?' said Audrey mischievously.

^ No, see the ghost,' said the child with wide eyes.

'Who is she?'

* Well,' said Tom, lowering his voice, ' don't say I
told you, for they think I don't know, they always do
think I don't know things — ^but it is my mother's sister,
Lucy — ^I b'lieve she was a very wicked woman — ^thaf s
why we must never say her name, Betty says — ^though
all the same I think Betty is very sorry for her. She
disobeyed grandfather, and no one ever dares do that—
I can't think how she dared do it. Betty said that
rather than marry Sir James Grey, who was always
drunk by two in the afternoon, she ran away from home.
Betty's mother was a servant here then and she told her.
You come here and I'll show you something.'

Audrey allowed herself to be led along a corridor at
the end of which Tom unbolted a door and took her
into an empty room. Not an atom of furniture was in
it, but leaning against the wainscot with its face to the
wall there stood a large picture.

' This was Aunt Lucy's bedroom,' whispered the child,

HOPE THE HERMIT III

'and after she ran away my grandfather had it all
stripped like this, and he made them take down her pic-
ture from the dining room and had it put away in
here with its face to the wall/

' And what makes you fancy that she walks still in the
garden? ^ said Audrey.

' They have seen her/ said the child in an awe-struck
voice. ' Her ghost walks up and down under the trees
in the pleasance, just as Betty's mother saw her doing
the afternoon when my grandfather said she should
marry Sir James whether she liked it or not. She
walked to and fro cr3dng, for hours, they say, and in the
morning when they came here to wake her up, the room
was epipty and the window wide open; she had got out
in the night by this tree that grows close by.*

Audrey went to look at the tree and reflected that the
girl must have been desperate indeed before she took
sui^ a leap. Then she stooped down and looked at the
name painted on the back of the picture.
Lucy Carleton. Anno Domini 1666, aetat 15.
Strong curiosity to see the face of the heroine of this
strange romance suddenly seized her. She carefully
turned the picture round, rather to the horror of little
Tom, who gripped fast hold of her dress, curious, too,
yet full of an inexplicable dread at the thought of seeing
the face of the ghost.

Flicking off the dust with her handkerchief, Audrey
Saw that the picture represented a young girl sitting in
a conventional attitude on a grassy slope, in a white
satin dress much more suited to a ball-room. At her
feet two little King Charles spaniels played with a ball,
but when, raising her hand to dust the higher part of the
picture, Audrey was able to make out the features dis-
tinctly, she gave a stifled exclamation of astonishment.
For in that familiar short face with its healthy colour-
ing, its finely moulded mouth and chin, its dazzlingly

Ill HOPE THE HERMIT

bright hazel eyes wd soft brown curls^ she at once
recognised the face painted in the miniature which she
and Michael had discovered in Borrowdale. Here at last
was fresh evidence as to Michael's parentage, and she
hastily turned over in her mind the plan she had best
adopt. It would hardly do to speak of the discovery
downstairs, she must at any rate consult with her mother
first, and with another long look at the picture she
turned it once more with its face to the wall, and hand
in hand with Tom returned to the nursery.

^You could not be afraid of such a sweet-looking
ghost as that,' she said, glancing at the child.

^ N — ^no,' said Tom doubtfully. ^ I'm somehow glad
she was fond of dogs.'

That was a human touch and gave him a fellow feel-
ing for the poor ghost. ^ I wish she had the dogs with
her when she walks,' he said. ' But she doesn't. They
say she is always crying, and crying, as if her heart
would break.'

Audrey was silent; the mournful cooing of the doves
in the cage seemed to harmonise only too well with the
sad story of poor Lucy. Could it really be true that she
was unable to rest but still returned to her old home,
haunting the place where she had suffered so much?

^ I wonder why she walks? ' said Tom. ' Is it because
my grandfather never forgave her? '

^I don't know,' said Audrey musingly. 'Perhaps
there is some wrong that she wants set right.'

'There's Eover barking in the pleasance; come and
look at him,' said the child, running to the window.
' Why see! he is barking at that pretty lady; he always
does bark at strangers. Who can she be? Look, she is
stopping to make friends with him; he's quiet now, he's
wagging his tail.'

' But Tom,' said Audrey in astonishment, ' there is
no lady there, only the dog.'

HQPE THE HERMIT 113

* Yes, there isl Why, I can see her as plain, as plain!
She's coming this way, she's looking up at us. Oh I it is
the lady in the picture — ^how lovely — ^how lovely she is.
It's you she's looking at! What is it she wants so
much?'

^ Dear Tom, it's your fancy, there's nothing to be seen
at all, only the dog wagging his tail.'

* It's the ghost lady. And she's begging you to do
something for her,' said Tom, struggling to unfasten
the window. ^What is it that you want, ma'am?' he
called in his shrill treble. ^ Oh, she gave such a smile
at that, and now she's looking at you; she must be very
fond of you. Oh, see! she's going, she's waving her
hand. She's gone out, just as my soap-bubbles go.'

Audrey looked in some perplexity at her companion's
intent little face. She was afraid that his brooding
over the ghost story, and the sight of the picture, had
over-excited his brain.

' You have been having a spring afternoon's dream,
Tom,' she said laughingly. ^ Come, let us have a good
game of battledore and shuttlecock. I'll warrant I can
beat you at that.'

Delighted to have a playfellow, Tom willingly as-
sented to this plan, and they were still hard at work,
and making the nursery ring with their merry voices
and the monotonous beat of the battledores, when the
old serving-man came to say that the coach was at the
door, and would Mistress Eadcliffe come to the with-
drawing room.

^ I shall never be afraid of the ghost any more,' whis-
pered Tom in her ear, ^ now that I've seen fecr.'

The farewells were said and Audrey and her mother
were shut into the cumbrous old coach.

'Such a strange thing has happened, mother,' said
the girl eagerly. * Through the chatter of little Tom
Simpson I have learnt something more about Michael
8

114 HOPE THE HERMIT

Derwent^s mother; there can be no doubt that she was
old Mr. Carleton's runaway daughter, for her picture is
precisely like the miniature we found. Do they know
who she married?*

^ They have no idea. Mrs. Simpson was talking of it
just now. I believe old Mr. Carleton knows, but no one
else has ever discovered who the man was.'

^ We must let Michael know about this,' said Audrey.
* I will write to him and tell him just what I found out.*

^No need to write,' said Mrs. Eadcliffe. 'We shall
soon be at home again and shall doubtless see him.'

' Yes, we shall soon be home,' said Audrey, and then
with a sudden catching of the breath she gripped fast
hold of her mother's hand. For as they passed out
through the gate something made the horses shy vio-
lently and for a minute it seemed that the coach must be
overturned. Then plunging and kicking in desperate
terror the frightened animals suddenly bolted and went
tearing madly along the road to Penrith.

' Don't be frightened, dear,' said Mrs. Eadcliflfe, sur-
prised to see the deathly pallor of Audrey's face, for as
a rule the girl was not easily alarmed.

' Oh mother! ' she said, trembling violently, ' it was
the ghost that made them shy, I saw her by the gatepost,
and she was weeping bitterly.'

'You are overwrought,' said her mother soothingly.
' It must have been your fancy and the memory of the
picture.'

So she argued, but the fact remained that the terrified
horses were still galloping at a pace which seemed
incredible considering the load they were dragging; that
the coachman sat on the box trembling like a man
with the palsy, quite unable to control them, and that
the Carleton coach was rolling and swinging from side
to side, bumping over stones, crashing through ruts
and shaking the occupants intolerably. At length there

HOPE THE HERMIT 115

3aine one tremendons upheaying^ and the coach was
)Yertamed just as they reached the outskirts of Penrith.

How long they lay there stunned Audrey had no
aotion; she awoke to the consciousness that someone was
lifting her up and that the fresh cold wind was blowing
on her face. In a bewildered way she looked round;
two passers by were lifting Mrs. Radcliffe, and as they
laid her on the grass by the roadside she heard her
mother moan faintly. The sound made her start to
her feet and hasten to Mrs. Badcliffe^s side. It was evi-
dent that she was seriously hurt, nor did she entirely
recover consciousness until they had carried her back
to Uncle Aglionby^s house, where, under the care of
Aunt Aglionby^s maid, who seemed to have every ap-
pliance that was needed for fainting ladies, from harts-
horn to burnt feathers, she gradually came to herself.

Audrey breathed more freely on hearing the surgeon's
report that no bones were broken, but before long it
became evident that some serious internal mischief had
been caused by the accident, and their imlucky drive
from Carleton Manor proved the beginning of a long
and wearing illness which made any thought of return-
ing to Lord's Island out of the question for some
months.

CHAPTEB Xm

At Isel Hall the Bumnier passed by imeyentftilly.
Michael had had plenty to do^ and fortunately it had
not been possible for him to brood over his private
troubles, for no one could live with Sir Wilfrid and fail
to take a keen and practical interest in the affairs of the
political world. Though sorry to hear of Mrs. Eadcliffe's
tedious illness, Audrey's enforced stay at Penrith was
clear gain to him, and he was not without hope that Sir
Wilfrid — ^who had recently been made a baronet — ^might
be compelled before long to make a journey to London
in connection with a lawsuit, and that by accompany-
ing him he might still further postpone that dreaded
meeting with the girl he loved, in her new position as
Henry Brownrigg's betrothed.

One September afternoon, dinner being over, he was
pacing to and fro in the quaint walled garden which lay
in front of the house, when he saw, coming towards him
down the broad flight of stone steps which were always
half veiled by moss and ferns, the well-known figure of
Zinogle, the Keswick fiddler.

^ Why, Zinogle! ' he exclaimed, greeting the old man
heartily. ^ 'Tis an age since I saw you. How goes the
world at Keswick? *

'Not so well as it did last November, sir, when we
fired the beacon,' said Zinogle with a sly gleam in his
eye. * There's less of thanking the Almighty and more
of grumbling and squabbling. For my part I say long
live King William, who had the chimney tax repealed.'

HOPE THE HERMIT 117

'What I yon bring a letter for me?' said Michael,
glancing cnriously at the nuBsive which Zinogle pro-
dnced from his leather wallet.

' A letter from Mr. Noel, sir, and Fve just delivered
one from Mrs. EadcliflEe to Sir Wilfrid Lawson.'

' Is Mrs. Badcliff e at Lord's Island then ? * asked
Michael, his heart stirring uncomfortably.

* Yes, sir, they are at home, and Mrs. Badcliffe calls
herself well, but to my thinking she'll never again be
what she was before her accident.'

Michael did not reply; he was busy with Mr. Noel's
letter, which brought him news that was sufficiently
startling.

'My Deab Michael:

A rumour has reached us that Sir Wilfrid Lawson is about
to go to London. Deeming it probable that you will attend
him, I am most anxious to see you first that I may give you an
introduction to an old friend of mine who may, I belieye, be of
service to you. Mrs. Hadcliffe is writing to Sir Wilfrid Lawson,
at the request of Sir Nicholas, and trusts that he will break
bis journey here. There is yet a further reason why we are
anxious to get speech of you. While at Penrith Mrs. Radcliffe
and her daughter visited a Mr. Robert Carleton of Garleton
Manor ; they have reason to believe that he must be your
grandfather, but have not succeeded in getting actual proof.
The name corresponds with that in the book which was given
you at Watendlath and I think you should lose no time in
following up the clue.

I am, yours very faithfully,

AuGusTiKB Noel.'

Michael read this letter with very mingled feelings.
To escape from this quiet place would indeed be a relief;
he had suffered too bitterly in that stately old hall with
its imposing faQade and its massive pele tower not to
crave for fresh fields and pastures new; the thought of
at length finding his mother's people stimulated his

ii8 HOPE THE HERMIT

f ancy^ and the notion of at length seeing London pleased
him well enough; but all this would be dearly purchased
by having to stay at Lord^s Island under the same roof
as Audrey, and with the constant dread that Heniy
Brownrigg might appear upon the scene.

'Well, after all!^ he reflected somewhat bitterly, 'I
am not my own master and shall have to do as Sir
Wilfrid thinks best/

'Come indoors, Zinogle,^ he said, turning to the
fiddler ; ' you must want rest and food after yoiir
journey, and I will go and write a reply to Mr. Noel/

A journey to London in those days was a formidable
imdertaking, and in this instance Sir Wilfrid knew that
he would probably meet with a thousand delays and hin-
drances and that several months would probably elapse
before he returned to the north country. Many things
had to be discussed and arranged; the attorney was sum-
moned from Cockermouth to make out a new will, ten-
ants had to be seen and entertained, accounts over-
hauled, and everything set in order as though instead
of making a journey to the south of England, the good
baronet was taking leave of this world altogether.

However, at length all arrangements were made, and
on a bright October morning Sir Wilfrid and his secre-
tary set out for the long-talked-of expedition. It was
about noon when they reached Keswick, and Michael, in
spite of himself, felt a thrill of pleasure as he caught
sight once more of Derwentwater glistening in the sun
and beyond it that wonderfid vista of the Borrowdale
crags. He might be coming face to face with sorrow,
but after all it was a home-coming, and he felt new life
in him as he looked lovingly at those familiar moun-
tains which had been the friends of his childhood. No
other place in the world could ever be to him what
Borrowdale had been.

Putting up their horses at Stable Hills Farm, they

HOPE THE HERMIT 119

v^ere rowed across the narrow strip of water to the island
)y old William Hollins^ and then^ with steady steps but
i wildly throbbing heart, Michael walked beside his
[mtron up the familiar path to the great door. It
opened just as they approached, and he saw Audrey
standing between the two old serving-men, waiting to
receive her grandfather^s guests, and making a pretty
apology to Sir Wilfrid. Sir Nicholas, she said, was not
well, and they had persuaded him not to venture from
the hearth. The next moment her hand was in
MichaeFs, and she was giving him the most matter-of-
fact greeting, friendly but preoccupied, — ^apparently
quite oblivious that anjrthing out of the common had
happened since they had last held each other^s hands at
Raby Castle.

Well, he reflected, she had never in the least under-
stood what she had been to him, and it was better so.
His heart seemed to turn into a limip of ice, but then,
after all, was not that more or less convenient? He
found himself able to talk with perfect sang-froid, even
to jest with Father Noel — as most people called him in
these more tolerant days — over the outfit he would need
directly he reached London.

Mrs. RadclifEe was particularly kind to him, perhaps
because her quick insight penetrated below his mask of
composure and well-assumed indifference; or possibly
because she could not help rejoicing in the thought that
she was not to have this penniless and nameless found-
ling for a son-in-law, — ^a mere boy, moreover, contrasting
Jnost unfavourably in every respect with the Under-
Sheriff, who was a man of good standing, wealthy, and
eminently fitted to protect Audrey from the wiles of
Father Noel.

It did not occur to her that the priest's schemes were
iy no means ended by the betrothal, and that he had
ao intention whatever of quietly acquiescing in what

I2e HOPE THE HERMIT

seemed to him a most disastrous state of things. She
retired when dinner was over, leaving the gentlemen
over their wine, and being still weak after her long ill-
ness, she was glad to go to her own room and rest while
Audrey took a basketful of scraps of bread and went
out to feed her swans.

Father Noel caught sight of her just as Sir Nicholas
rose from the table, and went oflE to the library with Sir
Wilfrid Lawson. He glanced from the girPs retreating
figure to the face of his pupil and thought for a moment.
Was he deliberately to lead this boy into temptation?

^ His heart is frozen,^ he reflected. ^ It must at any
cost be thawed, or he will inevitably go to the dogs.
Were there another woman likely to serve the purpose
I would throw him in her way, but as things are it is
absolutely necessary that we should keep him still in
love with Audrey. He will suffer, but that canH be
helped. To save him from himself, and to save her
from Henry Brownrigg, I must jut up with that and
run a certain amount of risk.'

'Let us come out together in the orchard,' he said,
turning to Michael. ' I want to speak a few words with
you as to my friend in London, to whom you have kindly
promised to bear a book. He, also, was one of those
falsely suspected in the time of the so-called Popish plot
in 1678. We left London together, but he has spent
most of his time abroad, having only lately returned to
London. I know that you are not one of the bigots who
will have no dealings with a Catholic, or I should not
have asked this service of you.'

'I will gladly serve any friend of yours, sir,' said
Michael. ' What is the gentleman's name? '

' Ask for him under the name of Mr. Calverley. He
is stajdng in Villiers Street, York Buildings. I have
known him for many years, and shall be grateful if you
will deliver into his hands the letter and packet I will

HOPE THE HERMIT isi

give you. And now let us say a word as to your own
affairs/

* As to this Mr. Carleton of Penrith, sir? '

* Yes. It was strange that the discovery should have
been made, was it not? ^

^ It comes too late,^ said Michael with a sigh. * I care
little about it now.^

* There I think you are wrong. Audrey cares very
much indeed, and is most anxious that you should inves-
tigate matters for yourself.^

He coloured painfully. ^Is she?' he said. *How
can it affect her? '

Father Noel hailed both the blush and the slight
faltering of the voice. The thawing process had clearly
begun.

' It may affect her more than you think,' he said, and
the words were strictly true, but he said them in one
sense and knew quite well that they would convey a
very different sense to Michael.

There was silence for some minutes. The two paced
on beneath the trees until they came to the water, and
here, standing on the shore with four snowy swans close
to the margin of the water, they saw Audrey feeding
her favourites.

^ Are they not beautiful creatures? ' she said. ^ Now
there is only one bit of bread left, — ^they shall have a
race for it.'

She flung it far out and clapped her hands as the
largest swan followed the prize.

^ I knew he would beat the others,' she said. ^ Isn't
ile splendid with his long, stately neck? '

^ The race is not always to the swift nor the battle to
the strong,' said Father Noel musingly, and the words
tnade Michael pull himself together, for he always in-
stinctively rebelled against Audrey's curious admiration
for mere bulL

laa HOPE THE HERMIT

Fortunately for him^ strength was not dependent on
size.

' Do you think/ said the priest, ^ that Sir Wilfrid will
object to your going to Carleton Manor, on your way
to London? I think you should get speech of Mr.
Carleton himself. That would be possible, I suppose,
Audrey? '

' Oh, yes,^ said the girl eagerly. ^ Though he is an
invalid I think he would certainly see you, and he is the
only person who knows who it was his daughter ran
away with; they say he has never mentioned the name
and that there were all sorts of guesses made at the time
in Penrith. But old Mrs. Aglionby thinks it must have
been to some stranger from quite another neighbour-
hood.'

They had strolled along as far as the fallen tree, where
a year before they had sat together on the day of
Michael's return; he recognised the place at once and
sighed as all the old hopes and dreams recurred to his
mind.

'Tell all about your discovery of the picture,' said
Father Noel, and for a minute or two he sat down beside
them, but soon complained of the cold and wandered
away by himself .

The two scarcely noted his departure, for Audrey was
thoroughly interested in telling exactly what had passed
at Carleton Manor, and Michael was not only absorbed
in her description, but seemed unable to take his eyes
from her face.

In truth she looked most lovely with her soft grey
eyes, a trifle wider than usual as she spoke of the appari-
tion, her face all animation and life, her sunny-brown
curls lightly stirred by the western wind. And the
priest had spoken truly, for she did care very much that
he should follow up th6 clue she had so strangely dis-
covered. After all, was his case absolutely hopeless?

HOPE THE HERMIT Ii3

Wild dreams began to find place in his mind; was there
not^ after all^ many a slip 'twist cup and lip? She was
not yet wedded to Henry Brownrigg. Mrs. Radeliffe's
illness had already delayed the marriage. Might not
some other chance intervene and once more save her
from a fate which seemed more intolerable now than
ever?

^It is strange/ he said, *bnt I, too, had the same
vision of my mother, although only in a dream.'

He told her of his walk with Father Noel, and of how
he had waited on the Styhead Pass and had seen what
he had never for a moment doubted to be his mother;
and then with far more hope than he had felt at
the time, he told all that had passed at Watendlath,
Audrey listening with that whole-hearted attention
which she had always shown in matters that concerned
him.

By and bye he took the copy of Thomas li Kempis
from his pocket and they looked at it together. Audrey's
thoughts were of that strange romance of the past; ab-
sorbed in picturing poor Lucy, whose sweet, sad face had
been stamped on her heart ever since she had seen it at
the gate of Carleton Manor, she never paused to reflect
that her curls brushed Michael's cheek and fell on his
hand as together they bent over the book. But he was
conscious of it in every fibre of his being, and it was
with a bewildered wonder that he read mechanically on
the page at which Audrey had opened, the description
of a man who, hundreds of years before, had somehow
attained to a peace of mind which seemed scarcely
credible. .

^ He committed himself wholly to the will of God,
and that noisome anxiety ceased. Neither had he the
mind to search curiously any farther, to know what
should befall him; but rather laboured to imderstand
what was the perfect and acceptable will of God

124 HOPE THE HERMIT

for the beginning and accomplishing of every good
work/

Audrey read on thoughtfully, but his eyes were no
longer on the book, but on that bright soft tress of hair
which rested on the back of his hand.

At that moment a shadow darkened the sunlight and
made them both look up hastily, imagining that Father
Noel had strolled back towards them along the grassy
path. Audrey gave a little exclamation of surprise and.
pleasure when she saw that it was not the priest at all,
but Henry Brownrigg. She greeted him gaily, and
never noticed the expression on his face until he turned
to Michael with the stiffest and most unfriendly of salu-
tations. Then she glanced in perplexity from one to
the other. What did it all mean? Both men were
evidently furious; her lover's brow wore a frown so
menacing and stormy that for the first time in her life
she was afraid of him; while Michael, with flushed face
and over-bright eyes, stood by erect and scornful, defi-
ance in his whole attitude.

There was an awkward pause; she had an instinct that
unless she broke it quickly something terrible would
happen, and with an effort she made a step or two for-
ward and put her hand on Henry Brownrigg's arm.

^ See,^ she said gently, ^ we were looking at this book
which was found at Watendlath. It belonged to
MichaePs mother and will form a link in the chain of
evidence he is getting together.'

^ Indeed! ' he said with sarcasm in his voice, and tak-
ing the book from her hand, he gave it to Michael with
a formal bow, and a look which said as plainly as words,
' I should like to throw it at your head if courtesy did
not forbid.^

Michael glanced swiftly at Audrey; her clear, inno-
cent eyes had a troubled look. He felt that for her sake
he ought not to linger.

HOPE THE HERMIT 125

' I haTe an errand in Keswick/ he said^ ^ and shall not
return till supper time. Can I do anything for yon in
the town? '

She thanked him, hnt said she needed nothing, and
'with a sense of relief saw him disappear among the trees,
leaying her alone with her lover.

'How long has that boy been here with yon?* said
Benry in an angry voice.

'Mchael? He came with Sir Wilfrid Lawson just
before dinner.*
*Tou know very well I meant what o*«lock was it
[ when he came out here with you alone.*

Perhaps she resented his masterful tone, or perhaps it
merely her innate love of teasing which made her
reply with a laugh:

* As Orlando said to Eosalind, ^^ There*s no clock in
the forest! ** *

a will not have him hanging about youl * said Henry
Brownrigg furiously. ^ Can't you see yourself how un-
seemly it is?*

^I don*t understand you,* she said, colouring.
* Michael is my foster-brother. I knew him long be-
fore I knew you. If my grandfather and my mother
choose to invite him here as a guest it is not your place
to complain that we talk together.*

Henry Brownrigg had the shrewdness to see that he
had made a mistake in adopting such a tone to his be-
trothed, and with an eflEort he refrained from saying
another word as to Michael, though his heart was still
hot within him.

*0f course you very naturally wished to tell your
ghost story,* he said, allowing his face to relax into a
smile. ^ I had forgotten that.*

Then seeing that she still looked grave and displeased,
he threw his arm about her, and began to tell her of the
wearing work he had had to do that morning, and to

Il6 HOPE THE HERMIT

speak of the future when he should have her always
near to gladden his life.

* But I am forgetting the special reason of my Tisit;
he said at length. ^ It was to ask whether you and Mis.
Badcliffe will not spend a day with us next week. The
short distance to Millbeck Hall would surely not be too
much for your mother, and there are many things to
discuss and arrange before our marriage.^

' We could come for the day/ said Audrey, ^ but in-
deed I donH think my mother can spare me yet; she is
not strong. DonH urge her to fix any early date for
the wedding.*

She could hardly have explained why for the first
time she felt a dread of her lover; she was not in the
least accustomed to analysing her thoughts. Had she
done so she might have discovered that the entire blind-
ness of her admiration was at an end; his revelation of
petty jealousy of so old a friend as Michael, the insuffer-
able manner in which he had looked at her foster-
brother, had in reality opened her eyes to perceive some-
thing of his true character. Now, love has power to see
faults and blemishes and still to love on, because it goes
deeper than the faults, and loves what shall one day be
perfected. But the so-called love which is only admira-
tion is quickly killed by the sudden discovery of serious
failings; never having penetrated below the surface, it
withers and dies easily enough.

Audrey^s admiration of her betrothed was by no
means ended that October afternoon, but the perfect
content she had enjoyed during the first part of their
engagement was over. Had she been able to follow him
when he left her his true self would have been plainly
revealed, but unfortunately she never guessed that he
rode away from Stable Hills Farm with the full inten-
tion of overtaking Michael before he reached Keswick.

To his great satisfaction, he came upon him close to

HOPE THE HERMIT U7

Castle Hill^ for Michael was on foot. He reined in lus
horse.

^ A word with you, Mr. Derwent, if you please/ he
said in his haughtiest tone.

Michael stood still and looked lus rival in the face.

^Understand plainly, sir,* said Henry Brownrigg,
' that I will not endure a repetition of what I saw to-
day. I will not have you enjoying private interviews
with my betrothed.*

' Do you dare to dictate to Sir Nicholas Radcliffe's
guests?* said Michael angrily. *Let me remind you,
sir, that Lord's Island is not your property.*

' No,* said Henry Brownrigg with a sneer. ' It is not,
but Mistress Audrey Hadcliffe is my property.*

^Not yet,* said Michael passionately. * Thank God
you can*t say that till she is your wife. The law will
permit you to do it then, and, like Petruchio, I have no
doubt you*ll proclaim " She is my goods, my chattels,
zny horse, my ox, my ass, my anything! ** *

* Perhaps I shall,* said Henry Brownrigg, determined
to provoke a quarrel. ^It is nothing to you. What
have you to do, pray, with Audrey Eadcliflfe? You I a
:inere foundling bastard! *

The blood rushed to Michael*s face.

* You lie! ' he said fiercely. * Take back your words
or give me satisfaction.*

'That would please me better than anything,* said
Henry Brownrigg with a sneer, ' and since you leave
to-morrow ^

He broke off abruptly, for from among the trees and
bushes which clothed the lower part of Castle Hill there
suddenly emerged an old and venerable-looking man
wearing a sober-hued doublet and a plain, broad-
brimmed hat, black-silk hose of the finest quality, and
silver shoe buckles which were faultlessly polished.

' Friend,* he said to Michael, * do not forget.*

138 HOPE THE HERMIT

Michael turned to the speaker; his eyes were bright
with passion^ his bojdsh face flushed, but the Quaker's
cahn voice and manner exerted over him the same ex-
traordinary influence as on that March day when he had
first heard of Audrey^s betrothal.

' Sir/ he said, * Mr. Brownrigg foully slandered my
mother. Am I to stand still and endure that? He lies,
and knows it right well.*

' If thou dost fight every liar thy sword would never
be sheathed,* said the Quaker; ^ remember the sage who
sought through a city for one honest man, yet found
him not for all his seeking. As for thee, Henry Brown-
rigg, I heard thee stirring up strife with thy unseemly
words, and, as Audrey EadcliflEe's kinsman, I liked it
very ill that thou didst so little reverence her as to
speak of her as thy property in the public way.*

*Had I known, sir, that Mistress Radcliffe*s illustrious
Quaker cousin, instead of being in prison, was skulking
among the trees, I would have spoken more carefully/
said Henry Brownrigg with a sneer on his handsome
face.

*I take thy words as an apology,* said the Quaker.
^ But, nevertheless, *tis the presence of the Lord, not the
presence of man, that should teach thee rightly to rever-
ence woman.*

'Well, Derwent, the fates are against us,* said the
TJnder-Sheriff with a laugh as he touched up his horse.
'It seems that this time we must forego our meeting.
Better luck, 1 hope, in our next dispute.*

Michael, with a sick feeling of disappointment, bowed
in silence, and watched his rival until he disappeared
among the trees which bordered the horse track.

The Quaker eyed him keenly, understanding well
enough what was passing in his mind.

' Art thou wise to visit at Lord*s Island? * he said at
last.

HOPE THE HERMIT 129

' I am in attendance on Sir Wilfrid Lawson^ sir/ said
Michael. 'The visit was none of my seeking. We
only rest there to-night on our way to London^ and
there were letters of introduction which Father Noel
wished to give me.*

They walked on together, as they spoke, in the direc-
tion of Keswick.

' Do not take it ill of me if I speak plainly to thee
with regard to Augustine Noel/ said the Quaker. * He
is, as I know, an old and tried friend of thine, but I
would have thee careful as to these same letters of intro-
duction. London is in a troubled state, as I learn from
my worthy friend George Fox; the very elect may be
deceived, led, before they know it, into meddling with
matters of earthly government.*

' I am the last to wish to dabble in politics,* said
Michael with an air of distaste, ^and am well content
with our new King and Queen. All I care for is to see
the town, to get away to something that will be fresh,
and free from memories. You can never have known,
sir, what restlessness means.*

^ Indeed, *tis a malady that doth too often haunt a
prison/ said the Quaker with a smile upon his quiet face.
' But *tis a foe to be wrestled with and not lightly
yielded to. Do not in thy restlessness become like the
rolling stone of the proverb which gathers no moss. As
for thy journey to London, that is well enough, only
have a care and remember that thy life is not thine own.
Tell me, hast thou room in thy valise for a small book?
If so I would be much beholden to thee if thou wouldst
carry it to George Fox, who is scarce likely again to be
at Swarthmoor Hall, or to venture upon a journey to
these parts, for he waxes old and feeble.*

Michael gladly undertook to deliver the packet to the
great leader of the Friends, and Nathaniel EadcliflEe pre-
vailed upon him to stay and sup at Hye HiU, where, in
9

I30 HOPE THE HERMIT

the stillness of the parlour in which he had once liyed
through so strange an experience^ he began once more
to face the life that lay before him, shamed into patient
endurance by the silent influence of his Quaker friend.

'j

•1

•j

■

t

\

I

ft

CHAPTER XrV

ReeoUeetiona of Miehad DeruwU.

MoBB than seven months passed by after the March
day when I first heard of Audrey^s betrothal before I
again found myself at Hye Hill. Late in October I had
to attend Sir Wilfrid to London^ and on our way, at
Sir Nicholas Eadcliffe^s request, we lay for a night at
the mansion on Lord^s Island. It chanced unluckily
that I came across Henry Brownrigg there; and after-
wards, near Castle Hill, high words passed betwixt us,
so that we should certainly have fought upon the matter
had not my Quaker friend suddenly appeared, managed
to patch up a peace between us, and brought me to his
house.

What it was in Nathaniel RadcliflEe and that sweet-

faced old lady his wife which wrought so strange an

effect on me I never can tell. I went into their house

heated and chafed and at war with fate; I came out

again calmed, and with a strength that made me ready

to face outer storms. Yet they never preached at me, —

it was not the Quaker way to speak much of religion.

They were just friends; and it was not what they did or

Mrhat they spoke, but what they were in themselves,

^hich somehow worked like magic. My old fancy that

ilye Hill was heaven, came back to me curiously that

^ght, and perhaps, after all, the drfeam had not been

VhoUy wrong; for in this old couple there certainly was

« heavenly-mindedness I never saw elsewhere. Had

132 HOPE THE HERMIT

they gained it in those long years of persecution and
imprisonment? Was it the reward — ^the martyr^s crown
— ^won by their patient suffering ?

All the way back to Lord's Island I pondered
over it.

There was a light in the window of the withdrawing-
room, and in the still evening air I caught the sound of
music as William HoUins set me down at the landing-
place.

Drawing nearer, the whole room became clearly vis-
ible to me. Sir Nicholas, in his armchair by the hearth,
beat time feebly with his long, slender hand; Mrs. Rad-
cliflEe was playing at chess with Sir Wilfrid, while
Audrey, with her nut-brown hair gleaming like gold in
the lamplight, sang to her lute Ben Jonson's song, ^ See
the chariot at hand here of love.'

Her voice, though sweet, was not very strong, and the
charm of her singing lay in the clear, unaflEected way in
which she rendered the words. I could have wished it
had not been so that night, for each phrase seemed to
have its own special torture for me.

* Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touched it ?
Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow

Before the soil hath smutched it ?
Have you felt the wool of the beaver ?

Or swan's down ever ?
Or have smelt the bud of the briar ?

Or the nard in the fire I
Or have tasted the bag of the bee ?
O, so white ! O, so soft I O, so sweet is she ! '

The very unconsciousness with which she sang seemed
to heighten the charm of the song. I turned away
trembling like a palsied man.

In the hall I came across Father !N^oel. He was pac-

ROPE THE HERMIT 133

ing to and fro, breviary in hand, and with one of his
swift glances he read my face. Audrey^s lute still
sounded through the silent house.

^ Welcome back again/ he said with his pleasant smile.
* Will you join them in the withdrawing-room, or will
you have supper first? '

'I supped at Hye Hill/ I replied, and then briefly
told him of the dispute with Henry Brownrigg and of
the Quaker's intervention.

* He was quite right,' said Father Noel. ^ You were
ever too ready to fight that braggart. Henry Brownrigg
needs tackling in other ways. Do not forget to see
what you can of my friend Mr. Calverley when you
reach London; and now let us join the others.'

But I hung back and begged him to make my excuses,
to say that I was preparing for the journey, or was indis-
posed, for to meet Audrey again at that minute seemed
to me intolerable.

The priest, however, with a persistence that I could
not understand, would take no refusal, and I was forced
to follow him into the room where the family was as-
sembled. He could not force me, however, to approach
Audrey. I stood by the fire near Sir Nicholas, while
Father Noel took the vacant chair close to the singer
and asked for one song after another, deliberately choos-
ing — or so it seemed to me — ^the ones that would give
me the keenest pain. That he hated Henry Brownrigg
and shrank from the idea of the marriage I knew well
enough, but why, now that the betrothal was a fact, did
he add to my misery by compelling me to meet the
woman I vainly loved?

I had reached Lord's Island that morning with a
heart like a lump of ice, but when I left the next day,
after a miserable night haunted by visions of past happi-
ness, love and passion and pain raged within me once
more^ and dreams as wild as an old fairy tale began to

134 HOPE THE HERMIT

take shape in my mind as I rode beside Sir Wilfrid to
Penrith.

In the forenoon of the following day I rode to Carle-
ton Manor. Audrey had described the house so well
that I seemed to know every stone of it, and standing in
the morning sunshine, the whole place seemed steeped
in peace. It was what they call St. Lnke^s simmier;
not a breath of wind stirred the russet and gold of the
trees, only now and then a leaf detached itself from its
twig and fluttered noiselessly down upon the smootli
green turf below. One could hardly picture that rest-
less, sad spirit, which Audrey had described, haunting a
place where all things seemed so tranquil.

Feeling not unlike Jack the giant-killer, I blew the
horn which hung beside the great door, and after some
little delay an old serving-man appeared in somewhat
shabby livery. I inquired whether it were possible to
see Mr. Carleton.

The old man looked at me very narrowly. A puzzled
expression stole over his wrinkled face.

*The master sees few guests, being an invalid,' he
said.

' But I come on an urgent matter and bring letters of
introduction,^ I said persuasively. Whereupon the old
man, still eyeing me very curiously, permitted me to
enter, and ushering me into a small anteroom, took the
letter with which Mrs. Eadcliffe had furnished me and
hobbled oflE into the adjoining apartment.

'Don't disturb me,' said a harsh, irritable voice,
plainly audible through the open door.

The toothless old serving-man was not so audible, but
I heard a remonstrating mumble.

'I tell you I will not be disturbed. Curse your
impudence.'

' Mumble, mumble, mumble.'

' Well, open the confounded letter, then, and hand it

HOPE THE HERMIT 135

to read^ you idiot! What! Mrs. Badcliffe^ who
1 the oyertumed coach? Hmnph! I suppose I
see the gentleman. Shift my leg for me^ you
lead^ and show him in/

Bgan to think it would be no pleasant task to go
laim kinship with this irascible old invalid^ and
iart beat fast as I was shown into the presence of
ie-haired and most crabbed-looking veteran of
eighty^ who gave me a ceremonious greetings and
'ed after Mrs. Badcliffe's health. When I had
i to that, there followed an uncomfortable pause,
instinct warned me as I looked at old Mr. Garleton
) beat about the bush, but to speak straightfor-
jr, even abruptly.

r/ I said, ^ you will wonder what hath brought me
;o trouble you with a question, seeing that I am a
stranger. But perhaps you will bear with me
I tell you that all my life will be overclouded till
lestion is answered. My mother was deserted by
usband just before my birth; she died refusing to
. his name, and only within the last few months
I discovered her maiden name. It is written in
lOok.' And with that I opened and held towards
he copy of Thomas i Kempis.
I bushy white eyebrows contracted as he peered
at the inscription; then with a fierce, quick move-
he clutched me by the shoulder and drew me down
le might more closely scan my face. The scrutiny
I have been embarrassing, but something in the old
I eager eyes arrested my attention, and I fell to
ing of him rather than of myself. There was
hing piteous after all about his crabbed, solitary,

re.

ou are Lucy's son; there is no doubt about that,*
d, falling back to his former position. ' The child
: shame.'

136 HOPE THE HERMIT

^ Sir/ I said, * I have met one who actually witnessed
my mother^s marriage; he is one whose word you could
not possibly doubt — as worthy a baronet as is to be
found in all the county of Durham. He pledged him-
self at the time not to reveal her husband's name. That
is why I come to you to-day to ask it.'

^You come to me?' he said with a bitter, mirth-
less laugh. ^You could not have come to a worse
person.'

^ Surely, sir,' I pleaded, ^ you will not withhold from
me my own father's name. I have a right to know it,
— ^if only that I may call him to account for having first
deserted my mother and then done his best to murder
me by the Spartan plan of exposure.'

Old Mr. Carleton's eyes lit up with a gleam of some-
thing like sympathy.

^ I like your spirit,' he said. ^ I would help you if I
could, but that arch-deceiver's name is still unknown to
me. My daughter did not see fit to inform me who it
was that imposed upon her, who it was in whose honour
she confided rather than in the honour of the father to
whom she owed everything.'

This tmexpected blow fairly staggered me.

^ You do not know even his name?' I faltered. ' Then
surely you must be able at least to guess which of her
admirers she was likely to favour.'

^ Indeed, sir, I can do nothing of the kind,' said the
old man bitterly. ^You have doubtless heard from
Mrs. Eadcliffe the current version of the tale. You not
unnaturally side with your mother, but now hear mj
side of the story. I have never spoken of it from that
day to this, but now methinks I have a mind that Lucy's
son should hear both versions. Have the goodness, sir,
to cross the room and open the doors of that Japan
cabinet.'

I obeyed, turned the curiously wrought brass key, and

HOPE THE HERMIT 137

revealed the damtily arranged pigeonholefi and drawers
inside.

* Now press with your fingers on the bottom of the
centre compartment/ said Mr. Garleton.

This apparently touched a springy for out flew a little
secret drawer in which there lay a letter yellow with

age.
Mr. Garleton told me to bring it to him, and motioned

to me to resume my former place.

'My wife had died/ he said, ^at the birth of our
second daughter, and thus, at twelve years old, Lucy
found herself mistress of this house. I had no fault to
£nd with her ; she was dutiful and affectionate. I
expected perfect obedience, and she never refused it
tintil it came to the time of her proposed marriage ;
then, without any warning, she changed her whole
method of behaviour, and flatly refused to marry the
liusband I had chosen for her. It became a contest of
^wills. I knew that I should not yield, and thought that
^th time and patience we should bring her to hear
Teason. But the girl was old for her years, had some
inkling of what marriage involved, and vowed that
nothing on earth should make her wed worthy Sir
James Grey, because, forsooth, he was, like other gentle-
men, a little over-free at times with the wine. At last,
as you know, she fled from home, and the news brought
to me the next day so shattered my health that by the
time I could attend to things again it was useless to
search for her.*

* But she wrote?* I said, eagerly glancing at the better.
' Ay, weeks after her flight this letter arrived — ^it had

evidently been delayed on the road. Probably her
lover saw to that. Eead it, sir, and see what you make
of it.*

I unfolded the letter; it was written in a clear, round
Juind, but the spelling was in many places faulty.

«S /:S>.?*j I'IMjl ^ESMITT

^^ :T* TujUMiiifl.

ec J

^?«a^3

I'JTB' yn'f I'W" WIMI IB^litt

IcEBfP^ 'VOL ^^voniL ati ^sfBOt;

>V jLIII tllllM T III 'I

luman' mc^gmn ^t ■■■mm -xk: jiflnftw

.1 'iUff 5g: .garvmnlJ^^
1^ OK. uMUMirzt;»ie riai

irr.

-nso:
tan Z

is: r ^ul -vnte^ i^^ur ftraKi Hjibuiih: ti mea^yi

Hiicnc: Q

*^ :^4V74>gr a^pnn,' «axt :iie ojit mgrr. ?ni.i ifr fj - :^ie Ii

t i«arL ^ .^^iTftiy it wa& her gKJi ^rr iw ami cfisKp^^mliiii
irt hir^ini? wefided one wiio «:[rrrnki7 t±ced of iiCT- thit b
hiwr wJfiiit, 5roT did ^le know wfietiiiH^ yo^t wooM f
gi^ir h«T flight,''

Tluf olfL man^» eye» seemed to softcEn a little; he lool
•t me f ery »eareiiingiy.

* Six/ he saifl, ' yrm are jaxmg and hopefnL I thi
yott ha? e not yet seen mach of the world. For my o
part I beUeve yotir worthy baronet, who witnessed
marriage ceremony, was hoodwinked by his sconndrel
a fnend. We aU know that it is easy enongh to

i^^'*V ^Zv^''''^ Tonr mother, I doubt 1
waa eaaily deceived. She was like yen, sW to susi

HOPE THE HERMIT 139

evil, and altogether wanting in judgment. She pre-
ferred this adventurer, this total stranger, to the hna-
band I had chosen for her-— one who owned as fair an
estate as could be desired/

The thought that Sir Christopher Vane had been
deceived had not occurred to me, and I remembered re-
luctantly, and with an effort to suppress the thought,
that he must have been very young at the time, and a
mere country-bred lad.

' Fll not rest till I have met my father face to face
and heard the truth from his own lips,' I said, starting
up with a longing to set oflf on my quest there and then.

Old Mr. Garleton watched me in silence for a minute.

' Take that letter with you,' he said. * It may be of
use in proving matters. God grant you may succeed
in calling that villain to account. Ood grant that I
may live to see him suffer as he deserves.'

' Amen to that,' I said hotly, for the old man's
righteous anger touched an answering chord in my
lieart.

^ Sir,' I pleaded after a moment's silence, * there is
one favour I would ask you. Mistress Audrey Badcli£fe
spoke of a picture of my mother which she saw here in
one of the upper rooms. I would fain see it with your
permission, and judge how far it corresponds with this
miniature.'

He held out his hand eagerly for the miniature, and
gazed at it for some minutes in silence, then made me
tell him exactly when and where it had been found.

'Depend upon it, 'twas a mock marriage,' he said.
* Why should a man be so anxious to be rid of all traces
of his dead wife? And why should he practically mur-
der his own son and heir? But all the more reason that
you do your utmost to search for this villain and expose
him. Eing that bell, sir, and I will send for the picture.
Timothy,' he added as the old serving-man appeared,

I40 HOPE THE HERMIT

* bring down once more the portrait that used to hang
aboye the sideboard/

The old servant; with an involuntary start of aston-
ishment at such a command^ disappeared, fayouring me,
however, with a keen glance as he left the room.

' Yon bear your story in your face/ said Mr. Carleton.

* The fellow sees who you are.' Then with that curious,
intent look in which I could not help thinking there
lurked something like affection, the old man gripped
hold of my hand. ' You must not take it ill of me/ he
said, ^ if I ask you to do me a favour. Left as a found-
ling, you cannot have much of this world's goods to
help you on your way.'

^ Sir Wilfrid Lawson gave me my education, sir, and I
have my salary of eighteen pounds a year and the use of
a horse, that is more than many secretaries receive.'

'True/ he replied. 'He has dealt generously with
you, but if you are to trace out this scoundrel you will
need money, and I would fain have my money used for
such a purpose. Take this purse and furnish yourself
with all that you need; nay, I'll take no refusal! Use
it, if not to pleasure me, then to avenge your mother.'

It was impossible after this to decline the old man's
gift, and indeed little more could be said, for at that
moment the serving-man entered, staggering under the
weight of an oil painting nearly as tall as himself. Very
eagerly I looked at the picture Audrey had described,
and saw at once that it exactly corresponded with the
miniature; moreover, I could see in this larger portrait
more distinctly that the face was indeed as my own.

I glanced towards old Mr. Carleton and saw that his
wrinkled face was quivering with emotion. He held
out his hand in farewell, evidently unable to endure any

more.

^ Go and prosper,' he said fervently. * Ayenge her,
sirl Avenge her! '

CHAPTER XV

ReeoUeeiions of MielMel Derwent.

OuB joiimey to London was uneventful but somewhat
tedious, and I was heartily glad when we at length
reached the house of Sir Wilfrid^s friend, Sir William
I>enham. It stood in Norfolk Street, betwixt the river
and the Strand, and was to be our headquarters during
our stay, for the two were close friends, and had many
iobbies in common, both being lovers of science and
keen naturalists.

The actual day of our arrival had not of course been
fixed, and we chanced to get in on an evening when
guests had been bidden.

Now, one of the smaller discomforts of my life had

always been the uncertainty of position which attaches

to anyone in such circumstances. Most men are fixed

by fate either in one sphere or the other. I hovered

uncertainly on the borderland, one of the waifs of the

world, yet educated as a gentleman, and enjoying many

privileges owing to Sir Wilfrid's kind-heartedness and

to the affection which he had always shown me. At

Isel I had never anything to complain of, and at Raby,

thanks to Sir Christopher Vane's interest on the night

of our arrival, I had been treated precisely like any

other guest. But elsewhere often enough there were

i8nubs and disagreeables to be encountered, those petty

Vexations which affect an older and wiser mortal

very little, but rankle bitterly when one is young,

143 HOPE THE HERMIT

and has not yet learnt to look on such matters philo-
sophically.

Supper was going on when we reached the honse^ and
having hastily donned evening dress^ we were shown to
the dining-room by an old servant named Thomas^ who
pompously announced Sir Wilfrid as he flung open the
door^ and then gripping my arm^ said in a stage aside:

^ There ain^t no more room, sir; as it is, I^m putting
Sir Wilfrid into the place of Lord Downshire^s chap-
lain. Luckily the roast had been removed and he'd
returned thanks. One can always turn out the chap-
lain before the sweets are served. You are the secretary,
I believe, sir? * He looked up questioningly as though
he would say: ^ Don't let us have any mistakes; if yon
are a gentleman of means, say so at once, and Til
apologise.*

^ Yes, I am the secretary,* I replied, unable to sup-
press a smile as I saw the expression of the old man's
face and the relieved air with which he received my
answer.

' Then step this way, sir; you'll find the parson to
keep you company.*

* But I can't eat the parson, and I am as hungry as a
hunter,' I suggested, seeing that the fellow was evidently
an old family servant and looked capable of taking a
joke.

His broad shoulders shook, and he promised to bring
me some supper without delay, which was as well, for
the chaplain was the most lean and scraggy of men, and
even a cannibal would scarce have deemed his bones
worth picking. He bowed rather stiffly as I entered.

'I am the Eeverend Ambrose Newfold, chaplain to
my Lord Downshire,' he said pompously. ' May I ask
your name, sir? *

*I am Michael Derwent, secretary to Sir Wilfrid
Lawson, of Isel Hall, Cumberland,* I replied, glancing

HOPE THE HERMIT X43

roTiiid the somewhat comfortless little room, which con-
tained nothing wanner in the grate than some very curi-
ous specimens of stuffed birds^ and nothing more edible
than cases of eminently dull fossils ranged all round the
walls. We had journeyed far that day^ and I was both
hungry and cold, nor did the savoury odours from the
next room help to make matters more pleasant. I
yawned prodigiously, which seemed to offend the rev-
erend Ambrose.

' It is a most unseemly custom,^ he said sourly, ^ that
the chaplain should be asked to withdraw when the
meat is removed; a great insidt to the church in the
person of her unworthy representative.*

'For my part I think you came off very well, sir,* I
said with a laugh. ^I would willingly dispense with
the sweets if only they would bring me a good plate of
beef and a tankard of ale.'

* Sir,* said the chaplain, ^ I thought of no such carnal
matters; it is the insult to the cloth that I resent — ^the
insult to the cloth, — sir.*

' Oh, hang the insult! * I replied, chafed by the man*s
pettishness. 'For the matter of that, they have in-
sulted my pen far worse, for I never got a chance of
sitting down to table at all. The truth of the matter is,
sir, that there was no room, and had not Sir Wilfrid
Ijawson arrived just at that precise time, you might have
said grace without any latent resentment.*

*Do you suppose, sir,* said the chaplain angrily,
'that I hankered after the paltry cakes of the pastry
cook?*

' I ask your pardon; it was perhaps the natural in-
ference of a hungry man,* I said, dropping into the
nearest chair and relapsing into silence. But ill-humour
is infectious, and the chaplain's fit of discontent soon
attacked me, so that I fell to wondering gloomily
whether it was always to be my lot to take the lowest

144 HOPE THE HERMIT

place^ to see the Heniy BrownriggB of the world gaining
all that I coveted^ and to remain to the end of my days
merely a rich man's secretary.

As for the serving-man^ he seemed basely to have
deserted me^ and though hunger is said to be the best
sauce^ it is apt to make a man decidedly short-tempered,
so that each moment as I waited I hated that lean chap-
lain with a more deadly hatred^ and only longed to be
rid of the sight of his lantern jaws.

At last there was a sound of voices and steps without,
and then the door opened, and in came a lady in prim-
rose-coloured satin, with filmy white lace about her
neck and shoulders. She was a brunette, with soft, x>
stag-like eyes, which somehow were sad even when they
smiled. I guessed her to be about thirty, but found
later on that she was younger than she looked.

* I am afraid, Mr. Newf old,' she said, turning with an
apologetic air to the chaplain, ^ that old Thomas treated
you somewhat unceremoniously. In his anxiety to
make ready for Sir Wilfrid Lawson, he hurried you
away most abruptly. He is such a good old fellow that
we put up with his brusque tongue; he has been with my
uncle for five and thirty years.'

The chaplain was obliged to accept the apology, and
in the meantime Sir William Denham's niece had be-
come aware of my presence, and the parson seeing her
bewilderment, presented me.

' This is Sir Wilfrid Lawson's secretary,' he said in his
raucous voice. ^Mr. Michael Derwent, Mistress Maiy
Denham.'

The lady curtseyed very graciously.

' Why,' she exclaimed warmly, ^ you have been worse
treated even than Mr. Newfold, and have had no supper
at all. I shall have to give Thomas a thorough scold-
ing. Come, Mr. Newfold, my aunt is longing for a
game of chess with you in the withdrawing-room.

\

HOPE THE HERMIT 145

Please find your own way up while I give orders about
Mr. Derwent's supper/

The chaplain^ glad, I am sure, to leave my uncon-
genial society, hurried upstairs, and in a few minutes
Mistress Denham reappeared, followed by the guilty
Thomas, who, to make up for his misdeeds, provided me
at length with the best that the house could afford,
waiting upon me with sedulous attention, while Mistress
Denham took the chair which the chaplain had vacated
and chatted to me in the most friendly and comfortable
way about our journey.

In what her great charm lay I have never been able
to tell. She was not to be compared for one moment in
beauty with Audrey Eadcliffe, and her face, though
sweet and winning, had quite lost its youthfulness. I
think it must have been her frank friendliness and the
consciousness that she had a large share of womanly
wisdom that so won me to her. No other woman ever
held just the same place in my life that she was destined
to fill. For Audrey Badcliffe an undying and passion-
ate love brought me as much pain as rapture; for Mrs.
Badcliffe I had a genuine affection, but it was tempered
by a certain resentment, for I knew that the betrothal
of her daughter to Henry Brownrigg had been to a great
extent a matter of her own arrangement. Then there
was Lady Lawson, who had always been most kind to
me, but who was naturally much absorbed by her own
children and the claims of her great household.

In Mistress Mary Denham I for the first time came

across one who seemed almost as much alone in the

world, as far as near relations went, as myself; this made

her able to understand, as others could not understand,

many things in my life. There was, moreover, about

her what I have never observed in any other woman — a

sort of genius for friendship, and a power of throwing

herself wholly into the lives of her friends. She seemed
xo

146 HOPE THE HERMIT

to move in a different region to most women^ as though
the page of personal desire in the book of her life had
been turned while she was yet quite youngs and she was
now intent only in the lives of other people. It was not
in that first evening that I learnt to understand her
fully, but it was then that the charm began to work.
For certainly part of her fascination was that she in
many ways perplexed one, being full of curious contra-
dictions. Surrounded by the friends she had won by
her friendliness, yet always somehow giving you the im-
pression of loneliness; dressed like a woman of the
world, yet with something in her manner which sug-
gested the simplicity and straightforwardness of a
Quaker; frank and genial, yet always beyond a certain
point curiously reserved; and quite free from the desire
to make an impression, which is the bane of most people.

There was absolutely nothing in our talk of the North
road and of the difficulties of the way, of the state of
London, and of the recent events, that would be worth
setting down, but nevertheless for the first time since I
had quitted Hye Hill I was conscious of that rest of
mind and heart which had first come to me among the
Quakers.

Later on, when we were in the crowded withdrawing-
room, where some had betaken themselves to cards, and
others to talk, while in one comer a string quartette dis-
coursed sweet music, I, — still watching the wearer of
the primrose-satin gown as she moved about among
her uncle^s guests, with her sweet, restful face, — ^was
carried away in thought to that calm-faced man who
had walked down the box-bordered path between the
apple-trees in the place I had dreamily mistaken for
heaven. Was it, after all, merely a fancy that these two
had already reached in some degree that state of
heavenly citizenship? that it was this that made them
so ready of access, so open-hearted to one who was but

HOPE THE HERMIT 147

a stranger? Surely nothing else would have made it
possible to accept all they gave without reluctance^ or
hesitation ; nothing else could have given me that
curious sense of kinship with them.

The old Quaker had doubtless attained to this state
while suffering so patiently his long years of imprison-
ment. But how had this gentle-faced lady gained the
serene heights which to one in the midst of the battle
looked so unattainable?

There was much talk that evening of the festivities
that were to take place on the 6th of November, the
anniversary of the King's landing at Brixham, and Sir
Wilfrid, to my no small content, not only arranged that
I should attend him when he went to Whitehall, but
carried me off the very next morning to a tailor specially
recommended by Mistress Denham's cousin, Bupert.

How it was that while desperately miserable about
Audrey's betrothal, and thirsting to avenge my mother's
honour, and distracted by the wildest visions of what
the future might bring, I could yet find satisfaction in
the colour of a vest or the cut of a doublet, or the fine-
ness of a lace cravat, I know not. But so it was; and I
am fain to confess that I took keen pleasure in donning
for the first time a court suit of tawny-brown velvet,
and silken hose of the approved shade of orange, and a
long vest of rich cream satin with innumerable gold
buttons, together with fine lace frills and furbelows,
and a rakish-looking three-cornered hat on the top of
a freshly dressed peruke.

Mistress Denham seemed in good spirits when we set
out on the evening of the fifth. She wore a very beauti-
ful dress of flame-coloured brocade; her brown hair was
turned back from the forehead and dressed high over a
cushion according to the fashion then prevailing, and
about her slender throat she wore a row of fine pearls.
Nothing could have been less Quakerlike than such

148 HOPE THE HERMIT

attire, and yet, as ever, she made me think of the Society
of Friends, and the necklace made me think of that
poem — ^ The Perle ^ — which some set down to the great
Chancer; so that all the evening I was haunted by the
lines —

* H€ grant us to he Eu servants letd,
And preeiaus pearls /or His pleasanee, '

^ It is all so different, so happily different to ihc
Whitehall I can remember in King Charles' time, seven
years ago,' she said to me as we entered the great gal-
lery, which was thronged with people. ^And yet, in
spite of all King William's good intentions, the strict
orders he gave for toleration to be shown towards Papists
and Nonconformists, his repeal of the hearth tax, and
his honest endeavour to make the Whigs and the Tories
work together for the real good of England, he is greatly
misunderstood and seems far from popular/

We were greeted just then by Bupert Denham's
brother-in-law, a young barrister named WhamclifEe,
whom I had already met at the house in Norfolk Street.
Mistress Mary Denham fell into conversation with his
pretty wife, who was one of her closest friends, and Mr.
Whamcliflfe began to tell me how Parliament had re-
versed the attainders of Colonel Algernon Sydney, of
Lord Eussell, and of the Lady Alice Lisle. I had heard
from the Denhams how some years ago he had well-nigh
lost his life in Newgate while they tried by every means
short of actual torture to make him give evidence
against Colonel Sydney, and could understand how keen
an interest he woiQd take in this act of reparation.
Only it saddened one to see that evil can never be really
undone; the hardships he had endured in prison had
sown the seeds of disease in him, and it was easy to teU
by his over-bright eyes, by the unnatural beauty of his
colouring, and by the soft but troublesome cough which

HOPE THE HERMIT 149

seemed habitual to him^ that he was abeady in consump-
tion. However^ for the present he was as happy as a man
well can be; was the father of three delicate but very
winsome little children^ and was blessed with a most
charming wif e^ who looked capable of taking the utmost
care of him, and prolonging his life by her tender care
to the longest possible span. He was a pleasant com-
panion, and pointed out to me many well-known people
as we stood there waiting for the entrance of the royal
party.

* There goes my Lord Devonshire/ he said, indicating
a magnificently dressed nobleman clad in orange and
green. ^ He is Lord Steward of the household, and is
a great lover of balls. One of his greatest annoyances
is that the court balls cannot be given in the splendid
rooms which King Charles built for the Duchess of
Portsmouth, for the Princess Anne, at the Eevolution,
got King William to promise them to her, and though
the Queen did her utmost to get her to relinquish them,
she will not yield; in fact, she has for her private use not
only that splendid suite, but the Cockpit as well.
Whether 'tis her doing or the doing of her favourite
Lady Marlborough, no one really knows, but between
them they have certainly obtained a very goodly
heritage.'

^Who is that handsome Dutch boy?' I inquired,
glancing at a youth who passed close to us in eager
conversation with a young Irishman.

* That,' said Mr. Whamcliflfe, * is young Arnold van
Keppel, the King's favourite page, and his companion
is Dillon, the aide-de-camp to my Lord Marlborough.
According to van Keppel, the King hates Lord Marl-
borough and speaks of him as " that vile man." Like
most of the silent and quiet people in the world, his
Majesty has a pretty insight into character and well
knows with whom he has to deal. Ah! the doors are

ISO HOPE THE HERMIT

being thrown open; the King and Queen are about to
come in/

I looked eagerly in the direction to which all eyes
turned, and frankly confess that at first a chill of sni*
prise and disappointment ran through me; for the de-
Uverer who had responded to the appeal of the oppressed
people of England, the conqueror who had freed us
from the despotism of King James, was a little, sickly-
looking man with that air of constant suffering which
is too often mistaken for crossness, and in addition one
of those careworn brows which betoken a mind inces-
santly harassed by vexatious details. He was much
shorter than the Queen, who, in her white-satin robes,
orange-lined train, and magnificent diamonds, seemed
to tower above him. She was strikingly handsome, and
had just the lively charm of manner in which his Maj-
esty was so singularly lacking, but from the tone of
the talk that I heard later on I doubt if she was really
any more popular than her husband; for after effusively
welcoming the new King and Queen people seemed
mercilessly ready to criticise them. If the King looked
grave he was instantly dubbed a sullen, ill-mannered
Dutchman. If her Majesty exerted herself to be ani-
mated and gay, people promptly said she was a most
heartless daughter, and ought to be mourning over the
sad plight in which her poor father found himself.

They seemed quite to forget that the English them-
selves had summoned the new monarchs to their aid and,
by their own act, had placed them on the throne which
King James ha'd deserted when he found that his tyr-
anny would no longer be tolerated.

Dancing now began, and the pleasure of watching it
had not had time to pall upon me, when my attention
was distracted by feeling upon me the piercing gaze of
a pair of eyes which seemed to have in them a most
curious influence. Shifting a little in my place, I looked

HOPE THE HERMIT 151

across the gallery^ compelled almost against my will to
meet the gaze of a gentleman several years my senior.
He wore a suit of black velvet laced with silver, and a
Jight peruke, and there was something in his face which
attracted and interested me.

* Who is that gentleman standing close to my Lord
Portland? ^ I inquired.

* Why, that,' replied Mr. Whamcliffe, * is a man I am
surprised to see here. His name is Calverley, and,
though 'tis not generally known, I have good reason to
^believe that he is a Papist. At the chambers next to
mine in Eing^s Bench Walk, there is a barrister named
Winter — as good a fellow as breathes, but hampered not
a little in his career because he comes of the well-known
Papist family of that name. I was once introduced to
yonder gentleman in his rooms, and have passed him
many times on the staircase. His name is Calverley.'

'Why, then he must be the very man to whom I
brought a book from Father Noel,' I exclaimed. * See,
he is coming this way. I beg you to introduce me to
him.'

The stranger bowed very courteously, and thanked
me for the packet I had left in Villiers Street, — ^he had
been out when I delivered it.

*I should have known you were from the north
Country,' he said pleasantly. * None of these wretched
southerners can say their r's properly. And how is my
friend Father Noel?'

' I left him well, sir.'

' And his patron — let me see what is the old gentle-
man's name, — ^Eadcliffe, is it not?'

' Yes, sir, — a kinsman of my Lord Derwentwater's
named Sir Nicholas Eadcliffe.'

' To be sure, I remember now, and indeed have met
the old gentleman many years ago. How does he fare? '

'He ages fast, sir. I fear we shall soon have his

152 HOPE THE HERMIT

brother inheriting the estate, for old Sir Nicholas can't
in nature last much longer. The brother, they say, is
a yeiy different man and goes in overmuch for plots
and politics. However, he'll not be on Lord's Island,
for that really belongs to my Lord Derwentwater, and
he liv^ wholly at Dilston, and would not, I am sure,
disturb Mistress Kadcliffe and her daughter.'

Li the pleasure of finding one who knew the Kad-
cliffes even very slightly, I had wandered on perhaps
rather rashly, considering how little I knew this gentle-
man. There was, however, something about him which
tended to draw one out. He had a frank, pleasant man-
ner, which inspired confidence, and I felt attracted to
him. I knew that Mr. Whamcliffe's surmise as to his
religion was perfectly true, for Father Noel had himself
told me that he was a Catholic. But there was, after all,
nothing so very strange in his being present at court,
for every English gentleman had from time immemorial
possessed the right of free entrance at Whitehall, both
during the King's dining-hour and at any special diver-
sion. Probably he came merely out of curiosity. While
I mused over this, I was startled by a sudden question
from the stranger:

* Then old Sir Nicholas Eadcliffe's granddaughter is
next in succession to her great-uncle, I suppose? '

' Yes,' I replied, * for he has no living child.'

* I heard a rumour that she was betrothed to a most
bigoted Protestant. How does Sir Nicholas take that?*

The colour flamed up into my face.

* He likes it, as most folks do, very ill,' I answered
shortly.

Mr. Calverley lowered his voice.

* What! are you one of us? '
I shook my head.

' No, but I loathe Henry Brownrigg's bigotry.'
And, as I spoke, all the miserable recollections that

HOPE THE HERMIT 153

had for a time been driven from my mind by the novelty
of the present scene, came crowding in upon me. I
thought of Audrey singing *See the chariot at hand
here of love ^ ; I thought of our talk by the shore and of
Henry Brownrigg's interruption; I thought of the words
the Under-Sheriff had used by Castle Hill, and of the
expression on his face as he rode away to Keswick after
the Quaker^s intervention.

What a hard world it was! And how soon the splen-
dour of Whitehall, and the charms of music and dancing
and gay attire, palled upon one I

' The King, they say, is longing to be with his army in
Ireland,^ said someone standing near me to his com-
panion. *He is more at home in camp than at court,
and that's the honest truth. Did you ever see anything
more like a fish out of water? '

So that was the meaning of the restless, unhappy
expression on King William's face I It was this horrible
atmosphere of hollow merriment, of meaningless splen-
dour, that was stifling him. It was the thought of the
hateful bigotry and party-spirit with which he was
everywhere confronted that gave him that almost de-
spairing expression. He longed to be fighting with
foes that could be fairly faced and frankly dealt with.
A war of words was intolerable to him; he craved to be
handUng his sword. A strong wave of sympathy with
the silent and much misunderstood sovereign swept over
me. After all, was the Quaker right? Surely the fight-
ing instinct was a noble one. Surely his doctrine of
passive resistance was only a counsel of perfection, never
meant at all for the world at large.

I was startled back to the present by finding Mr.
Calverley's curiously attractive eyes fixed intently upon
me, so that I could not help wondering how long he had
been reading my face like a book.

* The scene impresses you, Mr. Derwent,' he said with

154 HOPE THE HERMIT

a smile which was wholly kind and free from sarcas
* I would give something to see it with eyes as yon
as yours/

* People always take it for granted that to be you
means to be happy. It^s a confounded mistake/ I ss
bitterly.

But before my companion could make any reply I ^
summoned by Sir Wilfrid Lawson, and, following i
patron, I saw Mr. Calverley no more that night.

CHAPTER XVI

* OuB friend, I think, has a grievance,' said Mr. Cal-
Yerley, turning with a smile to Hugo WhamelifiEe. ' *Tis
a pity. ^Twill sour him. He^s over-young for a
grievance.'

Hugo Whamcliflfe laughed.

' Few can pick and choose the time for such things,'
he said. *Aiid as for that poor fellow Derwent, his
grievance, I understand, began when he first drew
breath. They say he was a foundling.'

'If he never has a worse grievance than that he'll

survive,' said Mr. Calverley, fidgetting with a ravelled

bit of silver lace on his doublet which ofiEended his eye.

'He has been well educated, and is in the service of a

kindly gentleman — ^what more does he wish? No, no,

depend upon it, there's a nearer grievance than that to

make a fellow of twenty-one wear the look he wears.

There's a woman in the case, and a hated rival. I know

Something of the rival, and detest him as cordially as I

fancy our friend does. Possibly I may be able to put

a spoke in his wheel, and so aid Mr. Derwent. What a

small world it is, and how we all jostle up against one

another! I like that young fellow, and must see more

of him.'

With that he passed on to other topics, and before
very long left Whitehall.

Hugo Whamcliffe turned then to his friend Mary
Denham.

' That Mr. Calverley seems much taken with Sir Wil-

156 HOPE THE HERMIT

frid's secretary. If you have any influence with him it
would be kind to warn him that Calyerley is strongly
suspected of being a Jacobite/

' Tou mean that he had better not get intimate with
him? ' asked Mary.

*He ought to be on his guard/ said Hugo Wham-
cliflfe. * Without being a bigot, one can be prudent as
to intercourse with those who are under suspicion. Be-
sides, to tell the truth, Mr. Calverley is a dangerously
persuasive talker, and from the look of that young fel-
low, I fancy he is just in the state when a very slight
touch might send him in the wrong direction.'

' But he will have Mary for his friend,' said little Mrs.
Whamcliffe with a look of happy confidence in Mistress
Denham's influence. ' I'll warrant her to outweigh the
most persuasive of Jacobites. As for me, I think it is
quite clear that the poor boy is in love. Did you not
see how he coloured up like a girl when Mr. Calverley
spoke of Mistress Eadcliffe? '

* So thinks Mr. Calverley, and he even knows the
hated rival,' said Hugo Whamcliffe with a smile. *I
heard him say as much but now. I wish I could make
the fellow out, but he is deep.'

'Who? Mr. Derwent?' asked Mary Denham.
' No, no, he is as honest and straightforward as the
day; it was the mysterious Mr. Calverley I meant. One
can't help liking him, yet he is not a man I should
readily trust.'

Michael Derwent, being some years younger and
knowing far less of the world, took much longer to dis-
cover the shortcomings hidden beneath Mr. Calverley's
very winning exterior. It chanced that the lawsuit
which had brought Sir Wilfrid Lawson to town took
far longer than had been anticipated, and all through
the winter and the spring they remained in London,
owing to the endless delays of the lawyers. During

HOPE THE HERMIT 157

this time Michael saw much of his new friend^ some-
times at his rooms in Yilliers Street and sometimes in
the chambers of Mr. Winter, the young barrister who
had been mentioned by Hugo Whamcliff e. Here he often
met a very pleasant and clever friend of Father Noel's
named Anthony Sharp, a middle-aged and highly culti-
vated scholar, and one of the keenest arguers conceiv-
able. The two younger men, as a rule, simply listened
to the discussions between Anthony Sharp and Mr.
Calverley. They debated numberless questions, but
more often than not the discussion turned upon some
point of difference between the Anglican and Roman
churches. On these occasions it always happened that,
for the sake of argument, Mr. Calverley would take a
brief for the English Church, and Anthony Sharp
would, with wonderful skill, crush his argument be-
neath the overpowering weight of a merciless logic.

Now, as Hugo Whamcliffe had shrewdly surmised,
Michael was just at this time in a state when a very
slight touch might send him hopelessly wrong. He
was unhappy; he had good cause for suspecting the
genuineness of a great deal of the noisy Protestantism
which he came across, to be nothing more than place-
hunting under the cloak of religion; and he hated with
all his heart a certain very aggressive Protestant who
performed the duties of Under-Sheriff in Cumberland
with more zeal than charity.

In old times Father Noel had done his best to make a
convert of him, but had failed. Now, however, in the
bitterness of his isolation, in the restlessness which is
the sure symptom of a sore heart, there was undoubtedly
something that attracted him in a church which would,
so to speak, take you in and do for you, save you from
all personal responsibility, think for you and care for
you, exacting nothing but filial obedience in return.
Surely, too, even in that thought of filial obedience

158 HOPE THE HERMIT

there was a charm to one who all his life had been a
waif.

One day early in April there arrived in Norfolk Street
a letter from Father Noel directed to Michael. He read
it at first with shocked surprise, then with a curious
stirring of the heart.

' You have received bad news? ' asked Mary Denham,
who happened to be attending to her pet birds in a
small aviary which opened out of the study.

' Yes/ he said. ' Mrs. Eadcliffe has died. She had
never wholly recovered from an accident last year in a
coach near Penrith, but the end was very sudden and
unexpected.^

* The poor daughter I What will she do? ^ said Mary.
' I suppose for the present she will remain with her

grandfather/ said Michael, the tell-tale colour rising to
his brow. Father Noel tells me that the marriage was
to have taken place at Easter, but is now of course post-
poned for a while.^

* Poor girl! how desolate she must be! And she will
feel doubly alone because in matters of religion she
thinks differently to her grandfather.^

*Nay/ said Michael. * It is in trouble that we see
how slight are the differences betwixt us.^

* I like your thought that, as far as may be, we should
live at unity with each other, but unity is the fruit of
love and toleration, and has nought to do with uniform-
ity, which is a matter of outward ordinances and differ-
ing beliefs, and never can come in this world.^

'Yet in uniformity there would be peace/ said
Michael wearily. ' One grows sick of these strivings as
to party questions, — these miserable divisions.'

' The peace of a hard and fast uniformity would b€
the peace of slavery — of death/ said Mary Denham.
' There will always be differences of view, for men are
not turned out in one mould. Surely, as the proverb

HOPE THE HERMIT 159

has it, ^twill ever be " Many men, many minds." It is
not a system, but a spirit that will bring peace; not a
church where all think alike and use precisely the same
ceremonies, but the spirit of love/

He looked into her clear, shining eyes; they seemed
to him like wells of light, so deep yet so calm were they
in their brightness. Was it possible that this woman
had more true insight into the problem that was filling
his heart than such a ripe scholar, such a trained
debater, as Anthony Sharp?

' I sometimes think,^ he said with apparent irrele-
vance, *that it would be far the happiest thing for
Audrey Badcliffe if she came to share her grandfather's
views.'

^ How can that be? ' said Mary Denham. ' If, as we
think, his views are mistaken, then it cannot be for her
real happiness.'

* It would, at any rate, save her from a miserable mar-
riage — ^a marriage that would be hell on earth.'

* But to save a great pain would you do wrong? ' said
Mary.

' I think there are cases where it might be permis-
sible,' he replied, as though feeling his way in the dark
along a strange path.

^ But once allow that we may do evil that good may
come and there is an end of all morality,' she said; and
now there was some trace of agitation in her manner.
Her breath came quickly, her eyes dilated, her colour
rose, for instinctively she knew that she was fighting
lor a soul, — struggling to resist the devil's own doctrine.
When such a time as that comes to man or woman one
of life's keenest delights is felt, and just as a soldier
glories in being called to some difficult task so the spirit
exults in being used for so glorious an end.

Yet, though her words were clear and forceful, it was
not the power of her argument which arrested Michael;

i6o HOPE THE HERMIT

it was rather a sort of bewildered gratitude and surprise
when the realisation broke upon him that she cared
intensely that he should not swerve from the absolutely
true, the absolutely right. From the first he had known
that she was singularly free from that petty craving for
attention which characterises so many women; she had
always been to him a perfectly frank and unselfish
friend. But now he understood how greatly she cared
for him, how divine a thing this friendship was which,
in the time of his desolation, had brought fresh interest
into his life.

He began to tell her of Anthony Sharp, and of the
way in which his arguments were always recurring to
his mind ; how it had seemed to him that there was
something of devotion in the life of a good Catholic, like
Winter of the Inner Temple, which was lacking in men
of their own church.

* But surely,^ urged Mary, * devotion is not the special
characteristic of any one set of men. We have saintly
men in the English Church, like Bishop Ken and Dean
Tillotson ; and saintly Quakers, like your friend at
Keswick and like George Fox.'

'Yes, that's true,' said Michael reflectively. 'And
how they are misunderstood! I was walking along the
Strand the other night with Mr. Calverley and a Jacoh-
ite friend of his who was calling the Dean of St. Paul's
every vile name you can think of.'

' Are you wise to be thus mixed up with Jacobites?'
said Mary Denham thoughtfully.

' Oh, it was merely by chance that I fell in with this
gentleman,' said Michael. 'As for Mr. Calverley, 1
have never heard him talk of politics. I remember
once before you warned me. But I assure you King
James is never so much as mentioned in Mr. Winter's
chambers. He is a very quiet, peaceable man, and has
good reason to avoid plots or conspiracies of any sort.'

HOPE THE HERMIT i6i

Mary was silent for a minxite. All this might be true
enough, but she could not rid herself of the impression
that a strong effort was being made to win Michael
Derwent over to the Bomish Church. It was quite evi-
dent that unless they had both great desire to gaiA. him
as an adherent and confidence in the likelihood of his
conversion, they would not at this particular time have
dared to risk admitting him to the discussions which he
had described to her. She knew, moreover, how likely it
was that in a state of sore-hearted restlessness he would
catch at anything which seemed to offer a sheltered
haven, without pausing to consider whether it was a
safe refuge, or the best and truest to be had. As she
mused over the danger which threatened him it oc-
curred to her that in the utterances of a man like the
much-persecuted George Fox, with his intense spiritual-
ity, his profound belief in the divine guidance of each
soul, he might find what he just at this time needed to
restore his mental balance.

• * I should like to see Mr. Fox,^ she said. * I wish you
would some day take me to the meeting-house in Grace-
church Street. The Quakers are able now to meet
without any molestation, and Mr. Wharncliffe told me
strangers were freely admitted.*

Michael laughed a little.

' What! Would you go all the way to the city and
then perchance sit for a couple of hours and hear no
single word? They do not speak imless the Spirit
moves them.'

* I should like to go, all the same,' said Mary. ^ To-
morrow is Wednesday, or what they call Fourth day, so
there is sure to be a meeting. Let us go and see what it
is like.'

' There is no one like them when one is in trouble,'
said Michael thoughtfully. * I only wish that Audrey
may see something of her old kinsfolk at Keswick. But
11

i62 HOPE THE HERMIT

that is scarce likely. Mrs. Brownrigg will be for ever
fussing round her^ and will perhaps carry her oS to
Millbeck Hall.'

He sighed with a fierce impatience and began to pace
the room restlessly.

* Tell me about Mistress Audrey/ said Mary Denham.
' Is she young? '

' She is my age; we were reared by the same foster-
mother, brought up in the same place. There was
never a time when I did not love her, and she,— she
would have cared had it not been for my cursed ill-luck.
For just as I had well-nigh proved my birth we were
separated, and they betrothed her to a man that I know
to be nothing but a great hectoring bully, a fellow she
would never have accepted had it not been that he is
that sort of prize-ox type of man that women admire.'

' Does her grandfather know Mr. Brownrigg well? '

*Yes, knows him and detests him, but he has no
power to interfere, for it was expressly arranged in his
son's will that any children born of the marriage should
be brought up in the English Church. How sick one
grows of all these religious disputes and party wrang-
lings! It half inclines one to have done with all strug-
gling after truth, and hand oneself over, body and soul,
to some father confessor who would arrange matters
comfortably. Why think for yourself if you can think
by proxy? '

His tone had been cynical. Hers, as she replied, was
sweet, yet so eager that the contrast was extraordinary-

'But why draw water from a pump in the public
street, often in past times found defective and danger-
ous, when in your own dwelling-place you have the
fountain-head?'

CHAPTER XVn

They were interrupted just then, but the words
liaunted Michael all that day and indeed for many days
after. Mary Denham, with her clear insight, had seen
rightly the peril which at that moment threatened him.
James Calverley, the scheming man of the world ;
Anthony Sharp, the scholar and theologian; and Winter,
the saintly devotee, who honestly believed that all who
were not members of his own church were doomed to
unending torments, were doing their very utmost to
win over the young north-countrjrman to their own
views. Their tact and judgment were wonderful, and
probably their efforts would have been successful had
it not been for another and stronger influence which
they had not reckoned on.

Brought up among the hills and dales of Cumber-
land and inheriting from his mother one of those
spiritual minds which turn more readily to the mystical
rather than the sensuous side of things, Michael had
inevitably been attracted by the inwardness of the
Quaker teaching. And when he found himself on
' Fourth day ^ sitting among those quiet * Friends ^ who
were neither praying nor preaching, but just waiting
upon God, all the restlessness seemed to be smoothed
out of him. Eebellion against God^s ordering was a
thought that died in this atmosphere, and the same
calmness which was clearly visible in the faces of the
Quakers, gradually stole over him, also, as he waited
there in the unbroken silence.

i64 HOPE THE HERMIT

Presently there stood up a woman who prayed with
great simplicity and earnestness; the whole meeting
stood and prayed silently with her. Then they sat
down again, and all was still once more.

They had prayed for all who walked in darkness, for
all seekers after truth, and woven in now with scraps
and shreds of the arguments that had been of late so
much pressed upon him, there came the remembrance
of the quiet room at Hye Hill and of Nathaniel Ead-
cliffe^s voice saying the words — * Be loyal to Him whose
love is the unfailing fount of strength.' ]

Presently, in the quiet building there came a very
faint stir as of people roused from an inward to an out-
ward listening. All eyes were turned upon an old man
dressed in brown leather who had risen from his place.
He was tall, and although much crippled by rheuma-
tism, and aged by the persecutions he had for so many
years suffered, there was something commanding in his
presence. His snow-white hair, parted in the middle,
over a low, broad forehead, hung in scanty locks abont
his shoulders, and the massive, large-featured face was
relieved from sternness by the piercing sweetness of the
large dark eyes.

Michael knew at once that this was George Fox, for
he had seen the Quaker for a few minutes when deliver-
ing to him Nathaniel Eadcliffe^s packet. He listened
to the sermon with some curiosity, wondering how this
man, who had learnt to endure every sort of ill treat-
ment without retaliating, would speak. He had none of
the cultivation of Anthony Sharp, and yet in what he
said, and in his intense earnestness, there was something
which rivetted the attention of all hearers. He spoke
on the text ' Be still and know that I am God,' begging
the Friends to keep their minds retired to the Lord, to
make an effort to do so, to control all over-eagerness in
telling and hearing news, since in the lower region all

HOPE THE HERMIT 165

news was uncertain and nothing stable; while in the
higher region — the kingdom of Christ — all things were
stable and sure^ and the news always good and certain,
because Christ ruled there. Neither should they seek
after earthly guidance, but rather go straight to Christ
Himself. AH men had the Inner Light, and by it their
consciences should be enlightened, and they should be
led both to see their sin and to be healed of it.

There was only one way in which to gain true inde-
pendence, true peace, and that was perfect trust in the
divine guidance. If we turned to earthly guides, we
should lose that religious reserve which is the rightful
and wholesome state for the souls of men, and we should
no longer turn the whole force of our wills to keep the
mind retired to the Lord. Only by waiting upon God
could the strength come which should enable each fol-
lower of Christ to go forth and do the work to which he
was called; only in silence could we gain clear convic-
tion that a concern was ppecially laid upon us.

After the sermon they rose once more to pray, and to
Michael it all came as a revelation. In George Fox^s
prayer there was a reverence so profound, an inward
realisation of God's presence so wonderful, that it
seemed as though he drew all hearts with him into his
Own heavenly-mindedness. He used very few words
and these of a great simplicity, but as though they were
Carefully weighed and chosen like the words of a poet,
^nd, above all, with a deep, unfailing regard to absolute
truth. There were no whining and exaggerated and
long-winded confessions of sin, no florid and fulsome
ascriptions of praise, no informing the Almighty of what
he had or had not done; it was rather the solemn com-
munion of one who speaks heart to heart with the Being
he loves and reveres most profoundly.

There was one other point which struck Michael with
surprise and admiration. The prayer had been curi-

i66 HOPE THE HERMIT

oufily shorty as though George Fox took very literally the
injunction in Ecclesiastes, — ^ Let thy words be few/

When the congregation dispersed it chanced that the
veteran leader caught sight of Michael^ whose face was
one which it was not easy to forget. He paused and
spoke to him for a few minutes, giving him no greeting,
for it was against his principles to say ^ Good-morning/
or to lift his hat, but nevertheless conveying by his
whole manner and expression a courtesy so far beyond
any conventional forms that it impressed all who met
him. His eyes rested tenderly on the young north-
countryman, for during his life of wandering he had
come to know countless people and was noted for being
both a ^ discemer of others' spirits, and very much a
master of his own.'

There was a gentleness and sympathy in his manner
which was all the more striking because of his strength,
and the severity of which he was capable whenever evil
had to be fought against.

^ I would fain journey back to the north with thee/
he said, ^ and see my wife at Swarthmoor Hall, but the
way is over-long for me now. Hast thou found yet the
marriage register that 'tis thy desire to find? '

'No, sir,' said Michael. 'I have searched through
many registers for the year 1667, but have not yet found
it.'

'Hast thou soughtyet in the steeple-house of Dunstan?

' Nay, sir, I have not yet been there.'

' When I saw thy face this morning and remembered
thy story there was brought to my mind how that just
a year after my release from Scarboro,' (which took
place the very day before the great fire of London), I
was walking from the house of Esquire Marsh down
Fleet Street, and by the door of the steeple house there
stood a bride and bridegroom just about to step into a
hackney coach. I know not why the scene lived in mj

HOPE THE HERMIT 167

memory; perchance it was that my own marriage was
then in contemplation; also there was something im-
usual in the face of the bride. Perchance there is a
leading in this. Go and search the register for the Ist
of seventh month, 1667, and see what entries there are/

So they parted, and Mary Denham being much in-
clined to think that they might find this curious coinci-
dence the means of discovering the lost clue, suggested
that they should lose no time, but go at once to the
Church of St. Dunstan.

A most crabbed old verger reluctantly admitted them
to the vestry, and amid incessant grumbling unlocked
an oaken chest. It was richly carved with a very quaint
design of Eve giving the apple to Adam, and beneath
was the inscription, ^ It is more blessed to give than to
receive,' which greatly tickled Mary's fancy and made
them both laugh. This enraged the verger, who fully
believed that they were making game of him.

^If you wish to take copies of a marriage register
you'll please to do it with care or not at all,' he said
severely. ^ There was a couple of gentlemen in here a
sen'night since, old enough to have known better, both
of them, and they must needs get fooling about with the
inkhom and spilt it all over the page, — a plague upon
them! Just look ye there! There's a fine mess for you
in a parish register! But, bless you, I made 'em pay for
it! They didn't leave this vestry till they'd crossed my
hand with gold.'

He chuckled at the remembrance, and Michael and
Mary bent over to look at the damaged page.

^Why, 'tis the very date, 1st September, 1667!' ex-
claimed Mary.

Michael's heart seemed to stand still, for there was the
entry he had been seeking, but so damaged by the ink
stains, and by an eflfort to scratch them out, that the
name of the bridegroom, the very name which he

i68 HOPE THE HERMIT

desired to leam^ was illegible. The rest was all perf
clear^ and ran as follows :

^On this let day of September, 1667, was solemnii

marriage between and Lucy Car

spinster, daughter of Robert Carleton, gent, of Ga
Manor, Penrith, at this Church of St. Dunstan, accordi
the rites and ceremonies of the Church of England, ^
Joseph Baynes, clerk in holy orders,

in the presence of Christopher Vane, of Raby (

County Durh
and Zachary Stevens, ye parish clerk of St. Duna

^ Clearly the first name must have been " Jo!
said Mary Denham, pointing to the faint indieatic
the first and last letters. ^ Now, if only it had
some out-of-the-way name! But John! why, it
guide at all! ^

^When was this confounded mess made?^
Michael, ^ and who were the gentlemen? '

^They give no names, sir,^ said the verger, ^
was a sen'night since. One of them, sir, was just ;
your height and build, and might ha' been fifty or \
about; the other seemed a bit younger, and I reel
'un the more learned of the two.*

^They took a copy of this particular mai
certificate?*

^ Well, sir, I'm no reader myself, so I can't say,
know it was on this page.'

^ Who is the witness named in the register, — Za(
Stevens? '

^ That be my father, sir.'

^ Can I see him? '

^ Bless you, no, sir. Poor old man^ he's been a
out there in the churchyard these fifteen year,
he'd be more'n a hundred if so be that he was air

' Tb^re seems a fate against me! * said Michael

\

HOPE THE HERMIT 169

in impatient sigh, and putting some silver into the yer-
ger*8 hand, he turned to leave the church, feeling ter-
ribly downhearted.

^ One thing is clear/ said Mary Denham, ' that was no
genuine accident with the inkhom. And there had
been a deliberate scratching out of your father's name.
Had the old verger been able to read he woidd have
realised that.'

* Then it must mean that Sir Christopher Vane has
communicated with my father/ said Michael. *He
promised that he would do so, and my father must still
be anxious to disown me, and has destroyed the only
certain legal proof that would have availed me.*

* And yet, nevertheless,' said Mary, * I think this will
prove, as Mr. Fox said, "a leading." It, at any rate,
shows you that for the present you can do no more,
that you must just be still and wait for more light.'

They had walked as far as Temple Bar, when their
talk was interrupted by a sound of street brawling; a
crowd had gathered about an extremely noisy and half-
intoxicated gentleman, who was singing at the top of
his voice one of the familiar Jacobite songs of the day:

' Ken ye how he requited him ?
Ken ye how he requited him ?
The dog has into England come,
And ta'en the crown in spite of him I
The rogue he shall not keep it lang ;
To budge we'll make him fain again.
We'll hang him high upon a tree ;
King James shall hae his ain again t '

At this moment the singer was confronted by a mes-
senger, who showed him a warrant which he was quite
incapable of reading, and marched him ofiE to the Tower,
amid the mingled cheers and groans of the crowd.

' Why, that is a fellow I have often seen with Mr.

170 HOPE THE HERMIT

Calyerley — ^jonng Sir Arthur BelL So he, too, is i
Jacobite I I wonder how long he will be clapt up.'

Mary was wishing in her heart that he wonld be moi
earefnl as to the people he mixed with, but she was to
wise to press the matter fnrther jnst then.

' Do you know,* said Michael, ' what it is to care nc
a straw for anything in the world? To be indifferei
as to what happens? To find everything one dull, dea
level?'

^ Yes,* she said, * I know very well what you mean.'

^ Since finding that damaged register I feel tb
there^s no more to be done; my life is over, at least 8
that makes it worth living,* he said with profound deje
tion. * What did you do when you were in like case?

^ You will find, I think, that other people*8 intereg
are put into your life, and you*ll begin to care for the
instead. By the bye, there is a matter in which y(
could help me very much. You remember how, in t
winter, we had that appeal from the Bishop of Lond<
to help the Protestant Vaudois, who had been obliged
fly from their homes because of the persecution of t
Duke of Savoy and the French? There is much ne
of a man who understands accounts and business nu
ters, at which, to tell the truth, the clergy are noto:
ously bad, and the ladies nothing to boast of. Mu
has been given in charity. If you could spare us soi
of your free time you would be doing a very kind
deed.*

Michael could not refuse such a request, though
that moment he felt perfectly hard and callous as to t
sufferings of the Vaudois. But the work in itself d
him good; moreover, as Mary had known would be t
case, it brought him into contact with men like De
Tillotson, Hugo Wharncliffe, and Mr. John Evelyn, v
was stajong just then with his family in Soho Squar

CHAPTEB XVIII

^ So far it has been a dead failure/ said James Cal-
verley, closing the shutters of his sitting-room in Villiers
Street, and proceeding in a leisurely fashion to get a
light with flint and steel and kindle the two candles
which, in very ill-cleaned silver candlesticks, stood on
the table. 'Before the fellow can be of much service
he must be won over to the true faith. I thought the
last debate had nearly converted him, but since Easter
I have not set eyes on him; he deliberately avoids
me, and even when asked to come here writes an
excuse.^

' There is some other influence at work,' said Anthony
Sharp, ^and I think I can tell you what it is. That
dark-eyed niece of Sir William Denham's hath intro-
duced him to the good folk who are bent on relieving
the heretic Vaudois. I despair of him now, for they^l
stuff his ears with gruesome tales of cruelty, and he will
conclude that we are all friends; for somehow your good
Protestant always manages to forget that he too can be
a persecutor when he has a chance. Such an one will
talk very big about the fires of Smithfield, but will man-
age to forget the horrible cruelties perpetrated in Ire-
land, to say nothing of the murder of my Lord Stafford,
as innocent a man as ever breathed.'

'You must have another try at him,' said Calver-
ley, ^for it is essential that he should somehow be
converted.'

' That, my dear friend, is more easily said than done.

172 HOPE THE HERMIT

HE

s5H

particularly now that he is hand and glove with Dean
Tillotson/

^ Tillotson? Perhaps the worthy Dean will only coin-
fort him as they say he did the Queen, — I mean the
Dutchman's wife, — ^with a sermon on hell/

' Perhaps,* said Anthony Sharp, with an odd motion
of the eyebrows. ^ But if, as they say is the case, Tillot-
son holds that the torments of hell are not endless, then
you may be sure he will attract a fellow of Michael Der- l-^
went's nature. Some may be won by fear, but he is not i '
of that make. The doctrine of never-ending evil and lie
suffering revolts his sense of justice, and you may be Irerj
quite sure that Tillotson will net him.' |te

^ Perhaps he only sees the Dean about this Vaudois
business.'

' No; I saw them together a sen'night since, walking
to and fro in the half -built new St. Paul's, in deep talk.
By stepping behind some scaffolding, I contrived to
catch a sentence now and then as they passed, and heard
the Dean arguing against an infallible church, and
speaking outrageous things of His Holiness the Pope.
The church, he argued, was but the congregation of
faithful men, liable to err, and as yet unfinished and in-
complete, just like the building in which they walked. I^j
It was built up, not out of rules and dogmas and cere- |ti
monies, but of the lives of Christian men and women;
and there, to do him justice, he said many excellent
and practical things to young Dcrwent, for practical
charity hath a large place in the Dean's teaching, and
accounts no doubt for his enormous influence. It's not
that the man is a great scholar or a profound theologian
— ^his best friends would scarce claim that for him — ^but
he certainly is zealous in good works, and, depend upon
it, his influence over young Derwent will last. I can do
no more for you.'

* Then the fellow must remain Sir Wilfrid Lawson's %

d1
T

ft ^
Ins

ero

it

\

i

HOP£: THE HERMIT 173

nameless secretary/ said James Calverley with a shrug
of the shoulders. ' No one can say I haven^t done my
utmost to save him/

^True, and, even as it is, you may find him of use
Bome day,' said Anthony Sharp. ^Have you a lemon
lere? I might write a letter to Nevil Payne and tell
lim how matters progress. I almost wonder Enderhy
hasn't returned from St. Germains hy this time; he has
l)een longer gone than I thought for.'

* Ay, now that the Dutchman has started for Ireland,
the sooner we set our plan agoing, the better,' said Cal-
verley, producing a lemon, which he cut in half, and
fetching from a drawer a goose-quill and some sheets of
writing paper.

Together the two proceeded to concoct a letter which
^as carefully written in lemon-juice, and would only he-
come legible on the application of heat. They were still
at work, when a tap at the door made Anthony Sharp
hastily thrust the quill into his pocket and shuffle the
papers under the table-cover. Calverley meantime
crossed the room, and flinging the door open, greeted
his visitor effusively.

^ We were but now talking of you, Mr. Derwent,' he
said in that genial, pleasant tone which had from the
first won Michael's heart. ^You are too much of a
stranger here. Has Sir Wilfrid been keeping you
chained to the desk that you have not visited me all
this time?'

^ No, sir,' said Michael, a little sorry to find Anthony
Sharp present. ^ But I have been taken up with other
tilings, and have come now to bid you farewell, for we
go back to the north on Monday.'

'What! so soon? I am sorry for that,' said James
Calverley, thoughtfully.

'There is nothing now to wait for,' explained Michael.
'Sir Wilfrid's lawsuit has come to a successful finish.

174 HOPE THE HERMIT

and my search after my father^s name is an unsuccessful
one/

^ How's that?' said Anthony Sharp^ scanning the
young man's face attentively.

* Why, sir, I have found the marriage in the register
at St. Dunstan's, but it had been tampered with, a
quantity of ink spilt over it, and the name — ^just the one
name I need — ^is quite illegible/

^ That does indeed seem a cruel stroke of fate,' said
Anthony Sharp. ^But accidents will happen, and
maybe you will find other proofs.'

^ It was no accident, sir, but design, if I mistake not/
said Michael. ^ I firmly believe my father himself to
have moved in the matter.'

Calverley had been elaborately slicing up the lemon
into a tumbler of water; he looked up now with a smile.

' Most men would be willing enough to have such a
fellow for son and heir. What reason can your father
have for still disowning you? '

^ I know not, sir, unless perchance it is a matter of
money, or unless he is ashamed now, after all these
years, to face one he did his best to murder.'

^But now, that you have discovered that you were
without doubt bom in wedlock, why seek further? ' said
Calverley. ^ By your own showing, the meeting could
scarce be a pleasant one.'

^ Why, sir, I should naturally like to know my own
name,' said Michael. ^And were it only for the sake
of pleasing my old grandfather at Carleton Manor, I
would fain speak a few plain words to the man who so
grossly neglected my mother.'

'It is a thousand pities that you dwell so much on
what is past,' said Calverley, dropping the straw through
which he had been drinking his lemon- water. 'Yon
want some fresh interest in your life. Why not take up
politics? '

HOPE THE HERMIT 175

Michael laughed and shook his head with an air of
distaste.

* They interest me very little/ he said, ' and from all
I can gather it is hard for a man to keep his honesty if
he meddles much with them/

* In matters of state/ said Anthony Sharp, ^ it is not
always possible to observe the same distinction between
right and wrong that governs the private life of an
individual/

And therewith he started on a long and ingenious
argument to prove that strict honesty, perfect justice,
is not always possible or even desirable. But somehow
through it all Michael seemed to see the face of George
Pox the Quaker, with those clear, wonderful eyes, pro-
testing against this deviPs doctrine, and showing how
possible it was even here and now to live in the higher
region where are to be found whatsoever things are true,
whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just.
While Anthony Sharp was still speaking, there came
a hasty rap at the door, and without waiting for leave
to enter, in walked a young fellow of about five and
twenty, dusty and heated and evidently fresh from a
long journey. He looked flushed and excited, and was
in excellent spirits — quite irrepressible spirits, indeed —
for do what they would, neither Calverley nor Anthony
Sharp could stop his mouth.

'I should have been back long before, but the wind
^as dead against us. I left St. Germains on Saturday/
he explained, taking a vacant chair beside Michael and
racing the other two.

As the name St. Germains was uttered, Michael felt
a violent kick under the table from his vis-d-vis, and
shrewdly surmised that it had been intended for the
over-talkative new-comer. A light began to dawn upon
him; clearly his friends were in communication with the
exiled Queen.

176 HOPE THE HERMIT

' So the Granger has really gone at last/ said the
stranger. ' Hey! what^s the matter? ^ Apparently the
kick had reached him this time. ^ Finding you here in
close confabulation and with a lemon on the table, I
naturally concluded the coast was clear. Who is ihis
gentleman? '

Calverley, who was half -angry, half -amused, gave a
keen glance at MichaeFs face. ^ This is my friend Mr.
Derwent,' he said. ^ Come and change your travelling
dress in my room, Dick, for in truth you are one mass
of dust. Then we can sup together and hear your news.'

* Nay, you shall hear that at the Globt Tavern in an
hour^s ^

The rest of the sentence was lost, for Calverley con-
trived to get his talkative friend out into the adjoining
room and to close the door with a resounding bang.

Meanwhile Michael turned over in his mind the mys-
terious words, ^ Seeing you with a lemon on the table, I ,
thought the coast was clear.^ Was the lemon some secret |i
symbol ? He looked in perplexity at the untouched \^
half on the plate and at the fragments of peel at the
bottom of the empty tumbler. What could it mean?
Evidently, too, there was to be a special meeting at the
Qlobt Tavern that evening, when the news from St. Ger-
mains was to be discussed. Well, he had better go be-
fore he heard any more, and taking up his hat, he rose
from the table, when just at that moment Calverley
returned to the room.

* I will bid you good-bye, sir,* he said in a somewhat
constrained tone.

'Not good-bye,' said Calverley with a cordial hand-
shake; * I shall see you again before you go to the north.'

*I think not,' said Michael, colouring. 'Our ways
evidently lie apart.'

' That talkative fellow has betrayed us,' said Calverley
with an air of great annoyance, while Anthony Sharp

a

HOPE THE HERMIT I77

scanned with no small interest Michael's e3q>res8iye face;
lie coiQd not help wondering whether his conscience
wonld urge him to make public what he coidd hardly
help knowing must be a Jacobite conspiracy of some sort.

* Sir/ said Michael, ^ the gentleman certainly talked
over-freely, but I was here as your guest, and am surely
in honour bound not to take any heed of matters which
were not meant for my ears/

Calverley pressed his hand, and a look of relief crossed
his face; then having sent kindly messages to Father
Noel, he parted with Michael, and closing the door after
him, paced the room in silence.

' We can trust implicitly to him,* said Sharp. ^ He
will not repeat any of that fellow's remarks. As long
as I live I will never employ Enderby again; I believe
the fellow was drunk.'

* No, no, but, as usual, careless and excitable. He
swore he thought he had seen Mr. Derwent, or someone
much like him, at one of our meetings beneath the
arches of the Haymarket. After all, it does not matter
fio far as public affairs go, for Michael Derwent is, as
you say, a man of his word and will reveal nothing. Yet
t am sorry, too, that he found out the truth. If things
%o well for us it will not signify, though, and, in truth,
if all Enderby says be true, our plans are most promis-
ing. Now that the Granger is off for Ireland and has
left his wife to rule alone, we shall have an excellent
chance of restoring his Majesty. However, you will
hear all presently at the Qlobe, Here, take the papers
from under the table-cover, and we will add a postscript
to our lemon letter.'

As they wrote, Enderby cautiously opened the inner
door and glanced round the room.

' Is the gentleman from the north safely departed? '
he asked. ^That's well! I breathe again! Now,
gentlemen, let me favour you with the latest lyric! '
12

178 HOPE THE HERMIT

And he trolled out in a clear baritone voice the song:

* Ye Whigs and ye Tories, repair to Whitehall^
And there ye shall see majestical Mall ;
She fills up the throne in the absence of Willy ;
Never was monarch so chattering and silly.'

^ Do have the goodness to remember that you are in
England and not in France/ said Calverley impatiently.
' If you are anxious to be lodged in the Tower I am not/

^Whatl You don^t think Mr. Derwent will betray
us? ' said Enderby in consternation.

'No, he can hold his tongue, but you apparently
can%' said Anthony Sharp severely. ' Come, gentle-
men, we may as well repair at once to the GZo6e, where
no doubt our friends will be assembling.*

And so saying, he carefully folded the illegible letter,
threw the remains of the lemon into the tumbler, and
prepared to go out.

.

CHAPTER XIX

MiOHAEL^s thoughts were far from pleasant as he
quitted Villiers Street. To know that a Jacobite con-
spiracy was on foot was nothing new, for it had long
been the news of the town that Queen Mary of Modena
was in communication with many zealous adherents of
King James both in England and Scotland. Only a
short time ago some highly important despatches had
been sent over by two men named Fuller and Crone.
Fuller had, however, proved false to his trust; on reach-
ing London he turned Government spy and carried his
communications straight to King William, who was at
his new palace at Kensington. Crone delivered his
letters to the plotters, but afterwards, on FuUer^s evi-
dence, was arrested and thrown into Newgate, where,
however, he steadily refused to reveal what he knew of
the plot. He was now lying, as Michael well knew,
under sentence of death, but it was thought that he
would probably be respited and induced to tell the whole
truth. Meantime, King William, unable to delay any
longer his departure for Ireland, where his presence was
absolutely necessary, had been forced to leave the Queen
to rule the distracted country as best she could. He
had set out for the war on the very day that Crone was
brought up for trial, and those who saw his unmoved,
mask-like face little guessed how deeply he felt leaving
the Queen in such a perilous time. Only to his friend
Lord Portland, and to Burnet — ^whom he detested but

i8o HOPE THE HERMIT

knew to be faithful— did he reveal the distress he waa
enduring.

But never perhaps has there been so striking an in-
stance of the way in which a woman can rise to the
occasion as is shown by the manner in which Queen
Mary ruled in England during one of the most dan-
gerous and tiying years the country has ever passed
through.

The Jacobite songs might describe her as chattering
and silly, might laugh at her pastime of knotting
fringes, but those who know the inner history of those
difficult times cannot but admire the wonderful abiUty
and judgment which she showed.

On the whole, as he thought over the unsettled state
of the country and remembered with a sense of discom-
fort how much he had been in Mr. Calverley^s company,
Michael felt glad that they were soon to return to Cum-
berland, and as he walked along the crowded and evil-
smelling streets a longing came over him for the fresh
mountain-air of his native place. Avoiding a noisy
party of ^ Scourers,^ who were making merry over ihe
persecution of a poor old watchman, he turned dowB
Norfolk Street, and hearing sounds of music in the
withdrawing-room, went upstairs at once. The room
was lighted only by two wax candles, which stood on the
spinet at the far end. Mary Denham was playing
Whitelocke's coranto, and Sir William slept peacefully,
with ^The Ornithology of Francis Willoughby, Esq.,
illustrated by most elegant figures nearly resembUng
the live birds,^ open before him.

^ That is an old tune, that my mother used to play,'
said Mary, glancing up at him as he appeared. I always
have to play it when I stay with my uncle Sir Joscelyn
Heyworth at Katterham.^

'You are going there soon, are you not?*

'Yes, I go next week. One begins to long for the

HOPE THE HERMIT i8i

country. You^ too^ will be glad to leave London and
get back to the north/

'For some things/ he replied, his face clouding a
little. ' If one could just get a good blow on the fells
and come back! But the thought of settling down there
for the rest of one^s life does not, I must own, attract
me.*

'You look forward too far,* said Mary. 'A good
many changes are sure to come before your life is ended.
When I think of all we have passed through in the last
eight years merely in matters of state, it seems to me
that we certainly can't complain of monotony. There
were those sad years at the end of King Charles' reign,
with all their anxiety, and then the tyranny of King
James, and Monmouth's rebellion, and the frightful
cruelties of Judge Jeffreys in the west; then the trial
of the seven bishops, and the invitation to the present
King, and the excitement of the Eevolution. We cer-
tainly live in stirring days. I wonder what will happen
to that poor young Jacobite, Crone.'

' The general opinion is that he will not be able to
face death when it actually comes, and will reveal the
truth at the last moment,' said Michael.

' However wrong or mistaken he may be, I cannot
help but pity him,' said Mary. ' To lie all these weeks
in Newgate with death staring him in the face is hard
on one so young. This afternoon Lady Temple was
here; she is devoted to the Queen, and has been much
with her since King William's departure. She told me
that Lord Monmouth constantly brings to her Majesty
in cabinet council most mysterious letters, which he
declares are intercepted by his friend Major Wildman.
They are all written in lemon-juice.'

'In lemon-juice? ' said Michael, starting.

' Yes, the writing only becomes visible when exposed
to heat. But the extraordinary thing is that they con-

i82 HOPE THE HERMIT

tain abstracts of everything done in the cabinet council,
of which Lord Monmouth^ you know^ is a member/

* To whom are they directed? ' asked Michael.

* To M. Contenay at Amsterdam. Her Majesty be-
gins to think that perhaps Lord Monmouth himself con-
trives them, and wishes to raise doubts and stir up strife
in the Queen's council. It must be a terrible tbne for
her; she does not know whom to trust, and everything
she does seems to give offence, while all the time Lady
Temple says she is breaking her heart over the enforced
absence from her husband, and is miserably anxious lest
her father should be killed or wounded in Ireland.'

* I think her Majesty need hardly be anxious on that
last point,' said Michael with a smile. ^From all one

12

hears, the late King is very unlike his father in personal I s£i

^A

%

courage, and will take good care of his own skin,
though he will let the poor Irish folk die by the thou-
sand in his cause.'

* She can hardly help being anxious about her own
father when her husband is fighting against him. It
must be the same terrible struggle that my uncle Hej-
worth had to face in the civil war, that sad time of
divided households. People say the Queen is heartless
because when, at the people's invitation, she came to
the rescue of England, she put on a bright face as she
entered Whitehall and affected a gaiety she was far from
feeling. But Lady Temple is her close friend, and she
knows that her Majesty has implored King William to
take every care of her father's person, and to let all
people know that he specially desired no hurt should
happen to him.'

' 'Tis well she has such a sweet-natured friend as Lady
Temple. You have taught me in these months. Mistress
Denham, that, as the old sage wrote long ago, ** A faith-
ful friend is a strong defence." '

She coloured with pleasure at his words.

HOPE THE HERMIT 183

* I have good reason to believe in f riendahip,' she said
OB she played on dreamily upon the spinet. ' As our old
Scotch servant says, I have been well " friended " al-
ways. And don't you forget your promise to write to
me as soon ae you find those moths which Uncle Den-
ham thinks you may discover on the wooded shores of
Derwentwater. It will be a rare delight to him if you
can send him some, and, moreover, I shall want to know
how yon fare,'

Just then Sir William woke up, and they fell to talk-
ing over the moths in question. He said that bis friend
the late Mr. Willoughby had died before studying them
as he had wished, and now he and Dr. Martin Lister,
whose study of spiders was so well known, desired to
Collect specimens. Mary felt no small satisfaction as
she perceived that her efforts had not been altogether
.u vain, and that she had really roused the young north-
countryman from his private troubles into taking in-
terest again in other things.

r

CHAPTER XX

' MTdear Audrey, if you would but realise that delays
are dangerous! ^ said Mrs. Brownrigg with a touch of
impatience in her voice. ^ I have tried to hint as much
to you times without number, but it seems useless/

The good lady was not unlike her son; she was large
and solid, with very handsome features and a slightly
dictatorial tone. And now, as she sat in the parlour
at Millbeck Hall watching the pale, downcast face of
her future daughter-in-law, she felt not a little irri-
tated.

For Audrey, in her deep mourning, with all the colour
flown from her sweet face, and with dark shadows under
her eyes, looked very little like a girl who was on the
eve of a happy marriage.

* Indeed, I am sorry for the delay, ma^am,* she said
wistfully, ^ but I should make but a sad wife yet awhile,
and should bring little happiness to Henry.*

* Of that, my dear, you are no fit judge,' said Mrs.
Brownrigg. *To my mind you would show greater
respect to your mother's memory by wedding the man
she desired you to wed, than in letting yourself pine
like this in a grief that is of no avail.'

Audrey kept her eyes upon her embroidery, though
they were so full of tears that she could not see ihe
stitches.

^I promised Henry this morning that our marriage
should be in August, as he wishes,' she said. ' It could
not be before that, for now that Father Noel has

HOPE THE HERMIT 185

sprained his knee and is invalided, I could not leave
my grandfather/

' I believe that provoking Mr. Noel hurt himself on
purpose to postpone the wedding again. You can't
deny, Audrey, that both he and your grandfather dislike
your wedding a Protestant/

Audrey sighed. *They do not understand Henry,*
she said. * And sometimes I think he does not under-
stand them.' Then seeing Mrs. Brownrigg draw herself
up with an air of ofiEence, she hastened to add, ^ Maybe
when we are really married, all things will go more
smoothly. Is that five o'clock striking? Then the
horses will be coming to the door, and I must not keep
them waiting. My two invalids at home will be looking
for me.'

Putting on her hat and riding gloves, she went with
her hostess to the great front door, and stood in the
sunny little garden waiting for her groom, listening half
dreamily to Mrs. Brownrigg's parting exhortations,
while her eyes rested on the quaint old Latin motto
carved above the name of the former owner, Nicholas
'Williamson, upon the lintel:

' Quorsumt Vivere mori, Mori vivere.^

' Whither? To live (is) to die. To die (is) to Uve.'

Audrey had reached that stage of sorrow when a
supreme indifiEerence to everything in the world falls
with numbing influence on the heart. She looked back
at Millbeck Hall without the least quickening of the
pulses as she remembered that in a short time it was to
become her home, and there was much excuse for the
impatient and worried look on Mrs. Brownrigg's face as
she watched her future daughter-in-law out of sight.

' Now, what in the world possesses that girl I would
give much to understand! ' she ejaculated, returning to
her work in the parlour in no very good humour.
* From love to my son I urge on the marriage, but 'tis

1 86 HOPE THE HERMIT

signing my own death warrant, for to be shut np day
after day in the same house with a chit who has no more
spirit left in her than a broody hen, will make my life
a burden/

The good lady, however, would have endured much
for her son, and her hard face softened when later she
heard his step without. He came in looking flushed
and eager, and asked at once for Audrey.

*Did you not meet her? She rode home with the
groom but a little while ago,^ said Mrs. Brownrigg.
* She declared she must go back to her two invalids, and
truly the way in which she pampers that disguised priest
is enough to sicken any good Protestant. My beUef is
that his injured knee is nothing but a pretext for
hindering the wedding.^

*' I wish I had not missed her,^ said Henry with an air
of vexation. ' But I was coming from the other direc-
tion and never thought she would leave yet awhile.*

^What is the news? And where have you been?'
asked his mother.

^ I have been at Wythop Hall with the Fletchers, and
there is great news afoot. A Jacobite plot has been
discovered, and the Queen and the privy council at
Whitehall have ordered the arrest of my Lord Clarendon
and many others. It seems, moreover, that John Kad-
cliffe. Sir Nicholas' younger brother and heir, has been
one of this accursed gang, and there is a warrant out
against him. He has been plotting and carrying on
correspondence with St. Germains these many months
in London, but went always under an assumed name.
At last he was recognised and his arrest was ordered.
Somehow he contrived, however, to escape from London,
and it is thought that he will possibly seek shelter with
his kinsfolk in the north.'

Mrs. Brownrigg was an astute lady, and she sat up
now with eager eyes.

HOPE THE HERMIT 187

' It will rest with you, of course, will be your positiye
duty, to search for this traitor,' she said.

* Certainly,' replied her son. *' And he will be a clever
man if he contrives to escape me. Not only do I hate
all these vile plotters, but it would be to my own interest
to rid Audrey of this dastardly great-uncle. She would
then inherit her grandfather's estate of Goldrill near
Ulleswater.'

' To be sure,' said Mrs. Brownrigg, rubbing her hands
gently together. ^ I should like to see you the master
of Goldrill. 'Tis a beautiful place^ and I remember
once dining there in the old times when Mrs. John
Eadcliffe was a bride. 'Tis strange that Sir Nicholas
lets such a place stand empty and lives in that half-
ruined old house on Lord's Island, which he only
dreams to be his own. A most impractical, visionary
old man. I have no patience with him.'

'Visionary, yes, but easy enough to manage,' said
Henry Brownrigg complacently. *A generous and
foolish old man, too. He will be certain to shelter this
ne'er-do-weel brother of his.'

' But how will you find out? ' asked Mrs. Brownrigg.

'Why, easily enough, mother,' said Henry with a
laugh. 'The little god Cupid will come to my help,
and I shall draw all the information I need from
Audrey.'

' To be sure,' said his mother. ' A girl will do any-
thing for love, and I don't for a moment doubt her
love to you, Henry. It is about the only thing left to
her, poor lassie; she's lost her looks and her spirits and
all her small talk. But her love to you survives. You
were but a foolish fellow ever to be jealous of Michael
Derwent.'

' That hete noire of mine is come on the scene once
more. Sir Wilfrid is returned from London, and Der-
went is to be on St. Herbert's Isle this summer, looking

i88 HOPE THE HERMIT

after the work on the new house there, and tntoring the
children, for it seems that some of the household at Isel
Hall are down with the small-pox/

* Audrey had heard as much, but she clearly takes no
interest in her old playmate. Not a muscle of her face
moYed when I spoke of him/

* Yes, I donH think I need be jealous,' said Henry.
*' To-morrow I will go and see how the land lies witii
regard to the great-uncle. As you say, a girl wiU not
withhold information from her lover.'

The next day Henry Brownrigg lost no time in rait-
ing Lord's Island, and Audrey gave him so eager and
loving a welcome that his heart beat high with hope.
They sat together in a little arbour in the shady pleas-
ance, and after beating about the bush for some little
time, he made a direct attack on the matter that was
filling his thoughts.

* You have no visitors here?' he said, watching her
keenly as he put the question.

^No,' she replied, ^none whatever. They tell me
Michael has returned from London, but he has not come
to see us.'

' I wonder at that,' said Henry.

'I am glad he has not come,' she said wearily. *I
dread seeing people since my mother died. I want no
one but you.'

He raised her hand to his lips. Should he tell her of
the discovered plot? On the whole, he thought not.

* My dearest heart! ' he said tenderly. * I come to
you whenever I can, and indeed I need you now more
than ever, for we live in troubled times and my work
just now is arduous. You little know how it cheers
and helps me to throw all public cares aside and come
here to this quiet place and find you waiting for me.
You will not mind if I come even more often than I
have done hitherto?'

HOPE THE HEkMlT 189

* Mind? ' she said with a little shy caress. ^ Why, no,
Henry, your coming is the one thing that cures my
heartache/

*I shall be much in Keswick during the next few
weeks,^ he said, ^ and will make a point of coming when-
ever I can. And do not forget, dear heart, that at
Lammas-tide you will be my bride, and that next Sun-
day our banns are to be read in Crosthwaite Church.
You have told your grandfather that? ^

* Yes, I told him last night, and he consents, though
liking but ill to lose me,' said Audrey.

*Well, well, that is but natural,' said her lover. *And,
after all, Millbeck Hall is no very great distance; you
will often see him.'

Pe left the island in good spirits, feeling that there
would be no diflSculty in learning the whole truth from
his betrothed should John Eadcliffe seek shelter in the
house.

Audrey watched him row back in the direction of
Keswick, feeling happier than she had done for some
time. There was something in Henry Brownrigg's
strength which comforted her ; and to-day she had
noticed in his manner a warmth and eagerness that
touched her sad heart, rousing it from its grief, and
kindling once more a gleam of hope in the life that lay
before her. After all, was she not young? It was im-
possible to dwell for ever in the happiness that was past.
Perhaps joy awaited her in that wedded home at Mill-
beck; perhaps Mrs. Brownrigg was, after all, right, and
she would most truly show her love to her mother by
making the very utmost of such happiness as might fall
to her share.

There was much to brighten her life in the prospect
of Henry's love and protection; then, too, God might
send her the blessed gift of children. In many ways,
as she sat there dreaming over the possibilities of the

I90 HOPE THE HERMIT

future, her outlook grew wider and more sunshiny, till
something of its former youth and beauty stole back to
her face, and the old gardener, as he approached her,
was quick to note the change.

' Bless her! ^ he said to himself. * She^s like her ain-
seP once more. Good-morning mistress. Hae ye time
to be cuttin' the lavender? It be fine and dry now, and
by night I^m thinkin^ we shall hae rain.'

^ Why, to be sure, Jock. I am but idling here in the
arbour,' said Audrey with a smile; and going to the
house, she returned in a snowy apron, carrying a large
flat basket and a pair of scissors to clip the lavender.
Jock heard her singing softly as she set about her work,
and had a very shrewd suspicion of the direction in
which her thoughts had turned ; for, as the fragrant,
mauve spikes were laid in the basket, Audrey involun-
tarily began to picture her fine new linen and the great
chest where her bridal clothes were stored.

JK

CHAPTER XXI

5 on the evening of this same 4th July the rain
old Jock, the gardener, had foretold came down
I earnest, wetting to the skin a wayfarer who, in
ling light, was making his way down the Stake
wards Borrowdale. From the way in which he

it was evident that he knew the country, nor
greatly care for the bad weather, but strode on
isk pace, a solitary figure in the grey landscape,
i journeyed far that day and was footsore and
that a sigh of relief escaped him as he came
Qto the valley, tramped through the little sleep-
age of Eosthwaite, where folks went early to bed,
de his way through Borrowdale to the margin of
itwater. Here he paused and looked across to
rbert^s Isle, his eye being attracted by the light
r in MichaeFs room.

Sir Wilfrid is apparently at his summer house!
luck to the old Protestant! Unless he is safely
we shall have him playing the spy. Well, at any
ere is a light on Lord^s Island, too, so the good
here have not gone to roost. The question is,
im I to reach them without disturbing the
s?^

ng over his plans, he strode on through the woods
Tinged the shore, pausing now and then to glance

remembered landmark, and finally stealing down
J Stable Hills Farm, close to which was one of
IclifiEe boathouses.

192 HOPE THE HERMIT

^ No dogs about; that is well/ he muttered to himself
as he unlatched the door^ and soon with deft hands he
had loosed a boat and was rowing across the narrow strip
of water which lay between the shore and the chief
landing-stage on the island. It was now quite dusk,
and having safely moored his boat, he crept noiselessly
round the ruined chapel until he reached the window of
the room in which he had seen a light burning as he
stood near Lowdore. The shutters were still unclosed;
he glanced into the deserted hall, and saw that the
remains of supper were still upon the table.

* They must have gone to the study,' he reflected.
^I'll not risk going round by the garden and the
kitchen premises; better creep round the chapel and
the brew-house; one is likely to fall foul of the
servants/

Swiftly crossing the open courtyard in front of the
mansion, he made his way to the window of the study,
and here good fortune attended him, for the window
was open, and beside it, drinking in the cool night air,
sat Father Noel, a self-controlled person with iron
nerves, who was not in the least likely to be startled
by his sudden appearance.

' Any shelter, good Father, for a hunted stag? ' he
asked in a low but cheery voice.

Father Noel involuntarily crossed himself and turned
a shade paler; then, with a warning gesture to the fugi-
tive, he turned to prepare old Sir Nicholas, who dozed
in his armchair.

* My child,' he said as Audrey glanced up at him with
startled eyes, *your great-uncle Mr. John Radcliffe
stands without asking for shelter. We must ask your
grandfather what is to be done.'

Audrey threw down her knitting and knelt beside the
old man's chair, gently rousing him.

^ Grandfather,' she said quietly, ^ there is a great sur-

HOPE THE HERMIT 193

prise for you. My uncle Radcliffe has come. He needs
shelter/

^ John! ^ said the old man^ waking all in a tremble;

* John here and needing shelter? *

* Ay/ said a voice behind them, and glancing round,
they saw the heir to the estate swing himself lightly in
by the open window with the ease and agility of a much
younger man.

' I am here, good friends, but have only escaped the
Tower by the skin of my teeth. How are you, brother? '
He greeted the old Imight with light-hearted good-
nature, speaking as though they had but parted a few
days ago. ^ My pretty niece, you will scarce remember
me; but an you love me, go close the window and the
shutters; then I shall breathe more freely. We must
keep my coming dark. Father Noel, or I shall maybe
land you all in trouble.^

* What has happened? ^ said the old priest anxiously.

* We have heard naught up here, save that the French
fleet is in the Channel. Is that true? ^

*Ay, indeed it is, and by this time, like enough, it
may have beaten the English fleet, for my Lord Tor-
rington hath one of those timid natures that shrink
from responsibility of any sort. The Queen and the
council, threatened by a French invasion and by a
Jacobite insurrection, grew desperate. Then, unluckily,
that poor young fellow Crone could hold out no longer.*

^They say he had a fair enough triaV said old Sir
Nicholas. ^We must at least allow that the present
government do not treat enemies after the fashion of
former times, when my Lord Jeffreys condemned men.
But what of young Crone? Is he dead? ^

* No, poor beggar, at last he broke down and couldn^t
face the scaffold. They offered him a free pardon if
only he would confess all he knew, and so at Whitehall
he revealed many matters which showed the Queen the

18

194 HOPE THE HERMIT

strength of the Jacobite cause. My Lord Clarendon is
in the Tower, and I should be keeping him company had
I not, by the aid of my worthy friend Father Sharp,
contrived to escape before the warrant had been deliv-
ered. What do you say? Can I shelter for a time in
the priests^ hole? '

*Yes, you would be safe enough there,' said Sir
Nicholas, * as Audrey remembers, from her game of hide
and seek, His little likely to be found. We had old
Father Francis there for weeks.'

^ What is the matter, my child? ' said Father Noel,
his keen eyes at once observing the look of doubt and
trouble that flashed into Audrey's face.

* Could it be possible,' she said, ^ that Henry already
knows my uncle to be a fugitive? '

^ Why, doubtless the authorities at Keswick know it,'
said John Eadcliffe easily. 'I have been some time
getting here, and ill news, as we all know, flies apace.
You mean that this Under-Sheriff lover of yours will
come searching the house?'

^ He was here this morning,' said Audrey, colouring
crimson, ' and I remember that he asked if we had any
visitors, and spoke of having to be much in Keswick
during the next few weeks, and that he hoped often to
come and see me.'

Her eyes filled with tears, for a terrible doubt of
Henry's motive for the first time came into her mind.
Was he just professing special tenderness to her to fur-
ther his own ends? Did he mean to use her as his tool?
Use her against her own kith and kin?

The thought tortured her, nor was there any comfort
in the long-embarrassed silence which reigned in the
room. It was quite evident that even gentle old Sir
Nicholas, with all his reluctance to think evil of his
neighbours, believed that her lover had been seeking
for information that morning as to the escaped Jacobite.

HOPE THE HERMIT 195

Now, Audrey, though gentle and sweet by nature,
was quite capable of being roused by anything which
savoured of meanness, and the notion of being trapped
into betraying those who were of her own blood made
her heart stir indignantly.

^ Oh,' she cried, * I don't think you will be safe here!
I believe Henry will come again with his question as to
visitors, and how am I truthfully to answer him if you
are in the priests' hole? — ^actually in the house?'

' My child, a lie in such a case would be quite per-
inissible,' said Father Noel. ^You would be merely
telling such a lie as Michal did to save David from her
father's fury.'

^ I can't tell a lie to my lover,' said Audrey.
^ The maid is right,' said John Eadcliffe. * Never
fear, Audrey; no one has a right to expect that of you.
Better give up your old uncle, my dear.' He stooped and
kissed her with the frank kindliness of look that had
won him so many hearts; and as Audrey felt him pat
her gently on the shoulder, as though she had still been
a child, her heart went out to this unknown kinsman,
and she felt the impossibility of betraying him.

^ I could never give you up, uncle,' she said warmly.
*■ Only if we could contrive to shelter you elsewhere, I
think Henry's suspicions would be more easy to allay.
Even if I tried to lie, I should do it badly, and he would
at once guess that something was amiss.'

^ There is something in that,' said Father Noel. ^ A
lover of truth for its own sake ever bungles the matter
and lies shamefacedly. Ha! there's knocking at the
great door. 1 fear your coming to the island has been
observed.'

For a moment they all seemed stupefied, for a visitor
at that late hour was unheard of, and to bestow John
Badchffe in the priests' hole was now out of the ques-
tion. Audrey was the most quick-witted, and with a

196 HOPE THE HERMIT

woman's swift intuition saw in a flash the sole chance
of escape.

* Quick, uncle/ she said, * come with me to my room
and I will bolt the door. Henry would never dream of
disturbing me.'

* You are willing to take the risk? ' said John Rad-
cliffe, hesitating for a moment.

But she caught his arm impatiently and drew him to
the door. ^ Quick, quick ! or we shall not reach the
stairs before the servants come,' she urged ; and Johnv
Radcliffe, without another word, obeyed, following her
swiftly up the broad, shallow steps, along a gallery,
and into a room dimly visible by a rushlight which
burnt on the table near the bed. She closed and bolted
the door behind them, then breathlessly motioned him
towards the large, roomy cupboard where her dresses
hung.

^I will let you out when they tell us that all is safe
below,' she said, locking the door upon him, and then
pausing for a minute to listen intently to what was
passing.

She heard steps in the entrance hall, then the voice
of old Duncan, the butler.

^ Sir Nicholas is alone, sir,' he said. ^ If any visitor
had come into the house to-day, why, I should have
known it.'

* Well, let me speak a few words with Sir Nicholas,'
replied a clear, penetrating voice, and Audrey shivered^
for she knew that it was, as they had feared, Henry
himself.

She stole across the room to the bed, and creeping
into it with her clothes on, drew up the heavy, knitted
coverlet, shuddering as though it had been a cold win-
tert n^ht instead of a sultry evening in July.

It seemed to her that without a moment's warning
she had been phmged into a 8» of difficulties and perils^

HOPE THE HERMIT 197

lid her heart ached as she thought how soon the bright-
ess of the morning had passed away. But though
lainly seeing that she had a difficult part to play, there
^as no wavering about her. In an instant she had
brown in her lot with those of her own blood. It was
Lothing to her that she shared neither their religious
Lor their political views; on such details she never even
►estowed a thought in this crisis. She only knew that
ler lover was seeking her uncle's life and liberty, and
ill her sympathies went to the man who had begged for
lelp and shelter. For to fly to the rescue of the op-
pressed is the natural instinct of every true woman, the
secret of that motherliness which enters into every
relation of life, perfecting her attitude not only to-
w^ards children, but towards husband, kinsman, and
■riend.

Meanwhile Henry Brownrigg had entered the study,
Poking sharply round with expectant eyes and feeling
imewhat nonplussed by the calm of the atmosphere.
ir Nicholas leant back in his armchair, with his eyes
lielded by one of his long, slender hands, and as the
isitor was announced he rose with an air of mild sur-
rise and gave him a quiet, courtly greeting. Beside
hie window sat Father Noel, book in hand.

' You'll excuse my rising, Mr. Brownrigg; but, as very
ikely you have heard, I have crippled my knee,' he said
►leasantly. ^I trust nothing is wrong with Mrs.
brownrigg? '

^I do not come from Millbeck, but from Keswick,'
laid Henry Brownrigg. ^A very disagreeable errand
las been entrusted to me. Sir Nicholas, and I only wish
[ were not called by my duty to carry it out. The fact
is a warrant is out for the arrest of your brother, Mr.
Tohn Eadcliffe.'

Father Noel made a startled ejaculation.

'Upon what charge, sir?' he inquired.

198 HOPE THE HERMIT

* On a charge of high treason/ said Henry Brownrigg,
trying in vain to read the priest's face.

^ Foolish fellow! ' said Father Noel. * He is one of
those who cannot keep from dabbling in politics. 'Tis
a pity he has not followed the example of his brother
and held aloof altogether from public affairs; but lie
has been much abroad, and that is an ill training for an
Englishman: they lose all genuine patriotism if they
are much in France.^

^ There is truth in that/ said Sir Nicholas. * But I
think, Mr. Brownrigg, you know me well enough to be
aware that I have no sympathy with any of the hare-
brained schemes for calling the French to invade our
shores in the hope of restoring King James. Bather
than see a French invasion I would welcome again the
days of Cromwell and the Commonwealth.'

^ Sir, I am quite well aware that you are a true-
hearted English gentleman/ said Henry Brownrigg,
touched in spite of himself by the unmistakable sin-
cerity of the old man's tone. ^But to-night we have
had terrible news; the English fleet has been disgrace-
fully beaten by the French off Beachy Head, and mj
Lord Torrington has been forced to fly along the coast
of Kent and to take refuge in the Thames.'

^ Great Heavens! ' said Sir Nicholas, his eyes kindling
^This is terrible news, indeed! Mr. Brownrigg, or
many matters we disagree, but I call God to witness tha'
in this matter of the French invasion we are entirely o:
the same mind.'

He held out his hand, and Henry Brownrigg presses
it in his, not without genuine admiration of the ob
Catholic gentleman, whose patriotism was plainly vifi
ible.

^It seems ungracious,' he said, ^ to return to the objec
of my visit, but duty must be done. It will be my dut
to arrest your brother, however little I like the task, aU'

HOPE THE HERMIT 199

it seems only too likely that, having, as we know, fled
from London, he should take refuge here/

*■ He would be very slow to imperil Sir Nicholas,' said
Father Noel. ^ In old days I knew him well, and there
is much kindly generosity in his nature. Moreover, to
come here would be a foolish and risky thing to do, and
Air. John Radcliffe is a shrewd man.'

^ I will be open with you,' said Henry Brownrigg,
^ and will tell you just how things stand. We know
that some days ago Mr. John Eadcliffe left London, and
came down to York by coach. At York he disappeared;
and in spite of many efforts we have not yet traced him.
This evening, however, I chanced to observe a boat
crossing at an unusually late hour to the island, and on
inquiry learnt from a travelling pedlar who was passing
with his pack-horse that he had seen a gentleman in
the path between Rosthwaite and Grange. Now, it is of
course quite possible that I may be mistaken, but taken

in connection with the boat which I myself noticed ^

' I'hat, if you will pardon the interruption, is a matter
of frequent occurrence,' said the priest; * on these long
summer evenings the servants often cross from the farm
late in the evening.'

^ Still I conceive it my duty,' said Henry Brownrigg
haughtily, *to make a search of the house, though
I am sorry to put you to any inconvenience. Sir
Nicholas.'

' Not in the least,' said the old knight with a courtly
bow; ^ you are perfectly at liberty, sir, to make whatever
Search you deem necessary.'

The Under-Sheriff was puzzled by this ready acqui-
escence.

' They will show me round the place,' he reflected,
* but all the while they may have got the fellow stowed
away in some secret room.'

' It is hardly to be imagined. Sir Nicholas,' he said.

c '

200 HOPE THE HERMIT

'that an old mansion like this was built without its
secret hiding-place; it would save us all a world of
trouble if you would kindly tell me where your secret
room is/

* With pleasure/ said the old knight. ' It is known
to few; but old Duncan will open it for you if I give him
instructions/

Then summoning the old butler, he said:

' Take Mr. Brownrigg round the house; he is in search
of a gentleman against whom a warrant has been issued.
Show him through the rooms and let him look into the
priests^ hole. But go quietly, Duncan, for I do not
wish Mistress Audrey to be disturbed; by this time she
will be asleep.'

' Oh, we will go quietly, I assure you,' said Henry
Brownrigg. ' I would not for the world alarm Audrey:
she has looked sadly out of health since her mother's
death, and we must not let her be harassed by this
affair. Pray say nothing to her about my visit.'

'You are quite right,' said Sir Nicholas; 'she must
not be disturbed or in any way troubled.'

So the TJnder-Sheriff was solemnly conducted round
the house, and looked into every hole and cranny with
the one exception of Audrey's room; but, needless to say,
he discovered no trace of the Jacobite, and before long
was rowing back to Keswick greatly crestfallen and
disappointed.

In the meanwhile Sir Nicholas and the priest had
been holding a consultation and had come to the con-
clusion that it was necessary to take the old butler into
their confidence. When he returned from bolting the
great door upon the Under-Sheriff they had him into
the study and told him the whole truth, making him
swear perfect secrecy.

* Now go and bid Mistress Audrey bring her uncle
down once more, and bring some supper in here, for I liigai:

HOPE THE HERMIT 201

doubt Mr. Eadcliffe will be hungry after his journey/
said Sir Nicholas.

Duncan bustled oflE in great excitement, eager to see
with his own eyes this visitor whose presence he had
strenuously and honestly denied to the Under-Sheriff.

* Mistress Audrey/ he whispered, knocking softly
on her door, ^I was to tell you that all was safe
below.'

Audrey hastened across the room, and holding the
rushlight in her hand, peered cautiously into the dark
passage.

^ Is Mr. Brownrigg gone? ' she asked.

^ Ay, miss, he has searched the house and has gone,
and I was to bid you and Mr. Radcliffe come down once
more to the study.'

Audrey, with a sigh of relief, unlocked the cupboard.

* "Tis all safe, uncle/ she whispered.

And John Radcliffe, who had stretched himself out
comfortably enough in the roomy dress-cupboard,
sprang to his feet and gave the old butler a careless,
^ndly greeting.

* 'Tis many a year since I met you, Duncan/ he said,
* but, by the Mass I you're not a day older as far as looks
go. Come, my pretty niece, you have been the saving
of me to-night, and I'm much mistaken if you haven't
sharper brains even than Father Noel, which is saying
a good deal. By all means let us come down and have
a family conclave.'

Audrey, who was most eager to know all that her
lover had said, was glad enough to make one of the
little group which gathered round the table in the study
while John Radcliffe made a hearty meal.

With a sinking heart she heard of the disaster at
Beachy Head and the threatened French invasion, yet
it was a comfort to know that her grandfather by no
Xneans shared his brother's views with regard to these

ao2 HOPE THE HERMIT

matters^ and she listened with a thrill of loving pride
to his straightforward words.

* You know well enough, John, that I hate all your
plottings and contriyings and will take no part in them.
But blood is thicker than water, and I will do my
utmost to shelter you. What are your plans? ^

^ If I can take shelter here for a while until we see
which way events run,^ said John Radcliffe, ^ that is all
I desire. If King James prospers in Ireland and the
French invasion is successful in the south of England,
why, I should return before long to London. If not, I
should make my way to the coast and take ship for
France. In any case a few weeks must decide the fate
of the kingdom and my fate with it.'

* Uncle, you will not be safe in this house,' said
Audrey quickly.

^ What! not even in the priests' hole? '

^ The Under-Sheriff knows the secret of that since
to-night,' said Father Noel.

^ And he will be constantly coming here to see me/
said Audrey, blushing. ^ I cannot parry his questions if
you are in the house.'

John Radcliffe gave a low whistle of dismay.

^ Then what is to be done? ' he said composedly, help-
ing himself a second time to the pigeon pie. * I thought
now he had once searched the house, all would be well/

^ There are many other hiding-places among the hills
if you don't mind being in the open air,' she suggested.
^ Michael and I used to know of several when we were
children. I could take you myself this very night, and
no one else knows of them.'

^But, my dear child, if you were seen wandering
about the fells the truth would at once be guessed,' said
Sir Nicholas.

^ There are few people astir in Borrowdale,' said
Father Noel. ^ She would be safe enough, and Heniy

HOPE THE HERMIT 203

Brownrigg is disposed of, at any rate, for to-night I
have just seen his boat disappear in the distance/

' How are we to tell that she may not happen upon
some shepherd ? The less we desire to meet folk the
more certain we are to do it, as a rule/

'Grandfather/ said Audrey, 'I have thought of all
that while waiting upstairs. It would never do to go in
my own dress; but you remember how all the Borrow-
dtde folk say that the bogle still haunts the neighbour-
hood and has by many of them been seen, dressed in
the clothes he wore when he fought the duel with the
Parliamentary officer from St. Herbert^s Isle. Now,
upstairs we still have some of the clothes my father wore
when he was a lad of seventeen. In old days I often
used to help my mother to imfold them, and see that
they were free from moth.'

* And you would make your uncle wear these? ' asked
Sir Nicholas.

' No, I would wear them myself,' said Audrey, blush-
ing a little. ' Then, did any chance to catch sight of us,
they would at once run away, for there is nothing so
much dreaded as the sight of the Borrowdale Bogle.'

John Badcliffe laughed and rubbed his hands.

* Bravo I little niece! did I not say you had the best
wits of us all? You shall enact the ghost of the Eoyal-
ist Eadcliffe, and I for the nonce will be one of old
Noll's crew.'

* Child,' said Sir Nicholas, putting his wrinkled hand
on hers, * do not rush into this escapade without think-
ing. You are right to try to help your uncle, but
remember that 'tis a perilous part you are about to play;
one, moreover, which might be gravely misimderstood
by Mr. Brownrigg should he ever by ill-chance come to
hear of it.'

'I know,' said Audrey, ^but oh, sir, anything is better
than that Uncle Eadcliffe should fall into Henry's

204 HOPE THE HERMIT

hands. I cannot bear to think that Henry should be
the one to bring him to the gallows — anything is better
than that! '

Her eyes filled with tears, for it is hard to have to
put into words the very fear with which the heart has
been fighting. Moreover, there surged over her once
more that horrible feeling that Henry had used her that
morning as his tool, that even his devotion had been
tinged with that other motive.

She was recalled to the present by finding the entire
breast of a fat capon thrust onto her empty plate.

^ Eat, my pretty niece, eat,^ said John Badcliflfe. ' If
you mean to pilot me across the fells to-night you will
stand in need of a good supper. After all, you are flesh
and blood, you know, and but a mock ghost.'

She laughed, and did her best to obey, glancing now
and then with something of curiosity at this unfaiown
kinsman, who in the course of half an hour had suc-
ceeded in making himself so entirely one of the
family.

Not only in face was he curiously like his elder
brother, but the tone of his voice kept reminding her
of some other voice which she knew, and she puzzled
her brain to think which of the many Eadcliffe cousins I
it could be. Though like Sir Nicholas in feature, he
was twenty years younger, and his light periwig, alert,
brisk manner, and upright carriage made him look less
than his true age. There was, moreover, about him a
buoyancy and youthfulness which astonished Audrey,
and she began to understand that, whereas her grand-
father hated the very notion of a plot and would not
have stirred a finger to restore King James, Tliicle Ead-
cliffe revelled in anything likely to bring hiiii excite-
ment and stirring adventure, enjoying the Jacobite
conspiracy as a boy enjoys a risky game.

^ Uncle,' she said, ^ how long can you bear to shelter

HOPE THE HERMIT 205

the hills? I must go and arrange with Duncan

your provisions for the next few days/

, if you'll not starve me I'U bide my time patiently

1. And in a few days' time there is bound to be

►f one sort or the other/

ry well, I will get you plenty of food; and look

J between ten and twelve at night on Wednesday,

h; then I can bring you fresh supplies and what-

ews we have heard/

went away to make her preparations, and as the
losed gently behind her a silence fell on the little
gathered round the table.

1

I

CHAPTER XXn

Audbey's footsteps had scarcely died away in the dis-
tance^ however, when old Sir Nicholas started to his
feet.

'I must talk once more with her as to this notion/
he muttered to himself, slowly making his way from the
room.

John Radcliffe looked after him uneasily.

^ My brother likes it ill enough/ he said. ^ Yet the
maid is in the right; it is by far the best plan.^

* It is undoubtedly the best plan for you/ said Father
Noel with a certain dry emphasis on the pronoun which
did not escape John Eadcliffe.

*Also for you, my friend, and for my brother — all
good Catholics are likely to fare ill if they are found
sheltering a conspirator.^

^Sir Nicholas does not trouble his head with that
thought/ said Father Noel. ^It is, as you rightly
divine, the best plan for you, but not the best plan or
the safest for Mistress Audrey.'

^ Well, what would you have. Father?' said John Ead-
cliffe, smiling. ^Does not holy writ declare that the
woman was to be a helpmeet for the man? When a
woman offers her help freely, shall I refuse it? '

^ There is no fear that you will ever do that, sir/ said
Father Noel dryly.

^ You were ever hard on my little peccadilloes. Father.
Yet you must admit that I proved a good husband to an
invalid wife.'

HOPE THE HERMIT ao7

'I say nothing against your second marriage^ but you
^^ere greatly to blame as to the first, and, depend upon
it, sir, you will yet be called to account for your crime/

'Come, Father, crime is a hard word,^ said John
Badcliffe, refilling his tankard. ' Let us call it a mis-
take, an error of judgment. And remember that I
christened the imp before leaving him. That ought to
te reckoned to me.^

' Sir,' said the honest old priest, his face aflame. ' It
^as a piece of the most damned impudence I ever heard
of! Don't boast of it to me. The sacrament was valid,
you say? Of course it was! But how you, with the
most cold-blooded murder in your mind, dared to take
such words on your lips passes my comprehension. I
tell you frankly that I believe your child by the sec-
ond marriage was drowned as a punishment for your
blasphemy.'

'I am quite aware that you account me a scoundrel,
Father,' said John Eadcliffe with a good-humoured
smile. ^But I think you might remember that I am
not, after all, a murderer, and that the child has grown
and prospered; that, in fact, he is at present far better
off than I am. To-night, for instance, he will be lapped
in luxury, while I, for trying to aid my lawful sovereign,
am bound to wander like an outcast on the mountains.'

^ I shall have nothing but hard words for you until
you repent and make amends,' said the priest. ^ I gave
you every possible help by sending Michael to you in
London. But you let all those months pass and never
acknowledged him; nay, you deliberately baffled his
efforts to discover the truth.'

^He was useless for the cause,' said John Eadcliffe.
^ When he is likely to be useful I will acknowledge him,
but not before.'

Father Noel's brow grew dark with anger.

^I used to think the Under-Sheriff the most selfish

2o8 HOPE THE HERMIT

man living, \vX i' faith I think you surpass him, sir,' he
exclaimed wrathfully.

* My dear old friend,^ said John Eadcliffe with a
laugh, ^ I do but go the way of all flesh. Here in these
rural solitudes you, no doubt, have hearts, bowels of
compassion, and all the rest of the paraphernalia of yir-
tue, but such things shrivelled up in me many years ago.
I care only for what will serve my turn. However, 1
think as a priest you should allow that my merit ii
trying to convert Michael Derwent to the true churcl
ought to count.^

^Your efforts to convert him failed,' said the priesi
gravely. ^ And I think they deserved to fail. I hav(
been your friend, John Radcliffe, for many years, anc
you'll never get flattery or false comfori; from me. Thai
was a true word of the psalmist when he wrote, " Evi
shall hunt the wicked person to overi;hrow him." '

^It may be a true word, but it's a damned uncom
fortable one to quote to a fellow when there's a warran
out against him and he has to pass the night in th(
open,' said John Radcliffe with his air of imperi;urbahl(
good-humour. ^ Come, a truce to this talk, and tell in(
a little more of my pretty niece. Is she really in lov(
with this Under-sheriff? '

^Unluckily she is!' said Father Noel, sighing. *•
doubt it's proving a happy marriage, but she honestl;
cares for the fellow. And I think he cares for her a
much as his nature admits of. A cold-blooded fish o
a fellow he is ; absorbed in himself and his owi
aggrandisement.'

*Yet a degree less heartless than I am,' said Jot
Eadcliffe with a twinkle in his bright eyes. * Ah! i
good time. Here comes old Duncan with half the coi
tents of the larder. This is much better fare than wb
Father Noel has been forcing me to swallow, — ^yc
understand me thoroughly, Duncan. A brace of duci

HOPE THE HERMIT 209

excellent I a flagon of Hollands — my good; old friend,
why not keep to couples still as they did^ the ark? —
make it two flagons, Duncan; they^ll be easier to carry.
Bread enough to stock a stall in Keswick market place.
Good I My exile will be endurable.^

The old butler went oflE chuckling to himself in search
of the second bottle of Hollands, and in another minute
Sir Nicholas returned to the room so that no more could
be said with regard to Michael Derwent.

Meanwhile Audrey had taken out of the old oak
chest in her mother^s room the clothes which must serve
for the ghost. The doublet and vest she at once saw
to be hopeless, for they were long, and cut after the
fashion wore in the first year of the Eestoration. More-
over, in this summer weather they would prove most
cumbersome and hot for a long walk. She chose instead
the white frilled shirt; the short grey cloak, with its
ample folds, lined with sky-blue taffeta; the knee
breeches and stockings, also of grey, and the broad grey
felt hat, with pale-blue feathers curling over the brim.
All that remained to be done was to loosen the fillet
which bound her hair, and to let her sunny curls hang
quite loosely about her shoulders; and when this was
done she could not resist laughing at her own reflection
in the glass, so exactly did she resemble the young
cavaUer whose picture hung in the hall below.

All fear had now left her, and her eyes were bright
with the fun of this masquerade as she went downstairs
to the study. Even old Sir Nicholas forgot his fears and
scruples as he looked into the innocent face of the girl,
who, without a thought of herself, so readily aided the
unknown kinsman, though little approving of his views.

John Eadcliffe, about to make some jesting compli-
ment as to the excellent fashion in which the cavalier
costume became her, hesitated and finally left the words
unuttered. For there was an unconsciousness about

2IO HOPE THE HERMIT

Audrey which somehow impressed him, and he resisted
the temptation to see what she would look like when
she blushed.

The clock had struck one when at length all thmgs
were ready, and old Duncan appeared at the door with
the provisions stowed away in a small sack, which John
Radcliflfe swung across his shoulder.

^ Now, for all the world I am like Tinker Bunyan's
Pilgrim faring forth on his travels,^ he exclaimed with
a laugh. ^ Come, lead the way, Audrey, for, like Chris-
tian, I flee for my life and have turned my back on
London, the City of Destruction. All the same. Father
Noel, be sure to let me know the latest news from the
city, for I hanker to return to it.^

^I wish I could come with you to-night,^ said the
priest, ^ but for this luckless knee of mine I could have
been your pilot. Take care of your guide, sir, and donH
forget that she is risking much for you.^

^ Oh, depend upon it, she enjoys nothing better than
such an adventure. It breaks the monotony of her life/
said John Eadcliffe, shaking Father Noel by the hand
with careless good-nature. Then taking leave of his
brother in the cordial, affectionate fashion which always
attracted people to > him, he followed Audrey out into
the hall, down the steps, and across the wet grass which
led to the landing-stage. In perfect silence they un-
moored the boat. Audrey signing to him to take the
oars took her place in the stern, and they made for the
boat-house near Stable Hills Farm.

It was now quite dark, save for the stars, and Audrey
was glad when they had made their way safely across the
field near the boathouse and had lit upon the mule
track which led through the woods from Keswick to
Grange and Eosthwaite. When once this was gained
all was easy enough, and they walked on briskly beneath
the trees, talking in low voices as they went.

HOPE THE HERMIT an

^ There is a light on St. Herbert's Isle still/ said John

Radcliffe^ pausiag for a minute on the little plank

bridge which had been thrown across the beck flowing

down between Walla and Falcon crags. * Is Sir Wilfrid

Lawson there?'

J ' No/ replied Audrey, ^ but some of the children and

I Mr. Derwent, the secretary. It is most likely his light

I that we see, for he is a great reader and often studies

1 I late at night.'

y^ ' A pleasant fellow. I met him in London/ said John
^ i Badcliffe, ^ though he knew me only under my assumed
\xi- ^anie of Calverley.'

)iii J 'He is one of my best friends. We were always to-
! gether as children/ said Audrey as they walked on, ^ but
i(i :: of late somehow I have seen but little of him. For one
dk ^Wng, Mr. Brownrigg never greatly likes him. They
i icA liad a quarrel as boys. Henry always believes him to be
j base-bom, and though it is practically proved that his
r Sx mother was the daughter of old Mr. Carleton, near Pen-
ri:^ rith, and was wedded in London to some stranger,
Michael can't get a copy of the certificate, for it has
been tampered with.'

' Poor fellow! ' said John Eadcliflfe, * that is hard luck
on him. Are you sure that is Mr. Brownrigg's reason
for holding aloof from him? '

'What other reason could there be?' said Audrey,
puzzled by his tone.

'Well, I had a notion, possibly quite a wrong one,
that they were rivals,' said John Eadcliffe ; ' that in
fact, my pretty niece. Sir Wilfrid's penniless secretary
had the audacity to love you, and that Mr. Brownrigg
objected to him on that score.'

Audrey started, and was glad that the darkness hid
her burning face. ' I never thought of that,' she fal-
tered, a dreadful conviction taking possession of her that
her uncle's surmise was true.

212 HOPE THE HERMIT

' Well, I am bound to own that Father Noel hinted
at something of the sort in the letter he wrote to me
about young Derwent. And I had not talked long
with the lad when we first met at Whitehall without
feeling convinced that the worthy father was right/

^ 1 never thought of him but as my friend and foster-
brother/ said Audrey with a sound of tears in her voice.

^ Well, well, there^s no blame to you, my dear,' said
John Eadcliffe; ^ a maiden in your position is bound to
have many servants all craving for her hand. Is that
Barrow Gill that we hear tumbling over the rocks?'

^Yes/ said Audrey, recalled to the present. *We
must leave the shore now and climb the fells towards
Ashness Farm. There is a track here to the left which
the Watendlath people ride down on their way to
Keswick Market.'

Leaving the shelter of the trees, they now began to
ascend the rough track. The cool night air was deli-
cious, and John Eadcliffe seemed to forget all the perils
that beset him in sheer enjoyment of the present.

^ It makes me feel like a boy again,' he said. ^ After
all, though these damned Dutch folk cause me to be
hunted like a partridge upon the mountains,. they fur-
nish me with unknown delights as well. And who
knows? In a few days the tide may have turned; King
James may enjoy his own again, and we shall then taste
the sweets of hunting.'

'Place-hunting or Protestant-hunting?' asked Au-
drey with mirth in her voice.

John Eadcliffe laughed.

*I did not give thee credit for so apt a retort, my
pretty niece. But, depend upon it, I shall never forget
the good turn the Borrowdale Bogle is doing me to-
night; and when the King comes to his own again, why,
I will see to it that Henry Brownrigg is not molested, so
you are serving your lover by this little escapade.'

HOPE THE HERMIT 213

*HuBh! ^ cried Audrey, gripping his arm in a sudden
anic.

'As I live! a light! ^ exclaimed John Kadcliffe be-
eath his breath. ' It moves too. It must be a lantern.*

They stood perfectly still, watching anxiously to see
whether the light drew nearer; then, when there could
longer be a question that it was steadily approaching
liem, Audrey swiftly drew her uncle out of the track,
nd moving a little to the right, whispered in his ear:

' Crouch down at the further side of the thorn-bush
y the gill. It must be someone from Ashness Farm.*

John Eadcliffe promptly obeyed, while Audrey, glid-
Qg to the near side of the bush, stood erect, her eyes
led on the approaching light, knowing that the only
hance of avoiding danger was to strike awe into the
eart of whatever shepherd or dalesman it proved to be.
he must enact the ghost and still her own fears, though
er heart throbbed till she felt half suffocated.

The lantern swung a little as its bearer strode down
ie hill; he seemed in haste, and Audrey fondly hoped
iat he might not even observe her, when just as he
as passing within twenty yards something made him
lance in the direction of the thorn-bush. For a mo-
lent he paused, then, to her horror, lifted the lantern
11 its light fell full upon her. Her eyes dilated with
Jrror, but by a supreme effort she stood absolutely still,
ad the next instant the terrible tension was relieved,
)r the shepherd with a loud cry rushed past, and she
iw the lantern swaying madly to and fro as he plunged
Jcklessly down the hill, while upon the still night air
lere floated back gasping ejaculations of:

* Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,
Bless the ground that I tread on.'

When at length all was still once more and the light
d disappeared John Eadcliffe crept out of his shelter

214 HOPE THE HERMIT

at the further Bide of the thorn, and taking her hand,
pressed it fast in his.

* God hless you, little ghost,' he said. * Why, how
cold you are, child! It has given you a fright. Come!
we must wait no longer, but hasten to shelter lest the
good man returns upon his way. It was worth some-
thing to see anyone in such a panic,' and he chuckled
softly to himself as he thought of the shepherd's horri-
fied cry and of the way in which he had scuttled down
the hillside. ^ Who was the fellow, do you think? And
what can have been his errand at this time of night? '

*It was Tim Grisedale, the shepherd from Ashness
Farm,' said Audrey, mounting the hill cheerfully again.
^ But what takes him out I do not know. See! there is
a light in the farm. Perhaps his wife has been taken
ill; she is the daughter of the miller of Lowdore, and
Tim may have been going to fetch her mother to her.'

* In that case,' said John Eadcliflfe, laughing, * he had
better say naught as to his encounter with the ghost, or
the good woman will not care to come out.'

* Oh,' said Audrey merrily, ^ the shepherd has much
more imagination than his mother-in-law ; she would
only mock at his ghost story and say there were no such
things as spirits walking the earth. I used to say bo
till I saw the ghost of Michael's mother.'

John Eadcliffe rapidly crossed himself.

* Saw what? ' he asked sharply.

'The ghost of Michael's mother at Carleton Manor.
I saw her by the gate, and the horses saw her too, and
shied and ran away. That was the cause of the coach
overturning, and my mother never really recovered from
the accident, though she lived many months after it.'

'My dear child,' he said in an expostulating voice,
'is it likely that the dead would come from another
world to make a couple of carriage horses overturn «
coach? '

HOPE THE HERMIT 215

' And yet you know, uncle, holy writ proves that ani-
oials are often quicker to see spirits than men are. Be-
sides, I can never for a moment doubt that I saw her
myself. It was the very image of the picture at the
nanor, and of the miniature which Michael and I dug
ip in Borrowdale. Just that beautiful, innocent, girl-
sh face — ^but of course you never saw the miniature, did

jTOU?'

* N-no,' said John Sadcliffe, shivering a little. * Mr.
Derwent would scarcely have shown it to a mere ac-
quaintance. Isn^t there some legend about a " barf oot
Btag ^^ and a ghostly pack of hounds in this part of the
world? '

^ They will not trouble us here,' said Audrey, * but the
people at Eosthwaite and Watendlath often hear them.
They say the stag plunges into the Derwent, where it
flows past the Bowder Stone. I have never heard it,
but Agnes Collins of Grange and Anne Fisher used to
tell us about it when we were children. Michael never
would believe that it was anything but the wind roaring
among the crags.'

By this time they had reached the ford where the
Watendlath folk crossed Barrow Gill on their way to
Keswick Market; and though crossing the stepping
stones in the dark was no easy task, Audrey managed it
better than she had expected and found that the ghost's
attire lent itself admirably to the rough scrambling
oyer rock and fell and through bush and briar which
followed.

At length they gained the place among the woods in
vhich as children she and Michael had so often played.
It was a shallow cave hidden away among the brushwood
^d worn ages ago in the grey rock. To make a bed
of heather and ling, to stow away the provisions, and to
listen to her uncle's cheery flow of talk, kept Audrey
f^ly occupied for the next half hour; then satisfied as

2i6 HOPE THE HERMIT

I

I

to hifi safety and promising to return on the evening of
the fifth day with news and fresh provisions, she took
leave of the kinsman who a few hours before had been
utterly unknown to her, but to whose charm of manner
she had so quickly responded.

To make her way home quite alone in the dark was
eerie enough; she breathed more freely when she was :
out of the wood and had the cheerfid ripple of Banow
Gill for company. When she had safely forded the
little stream she stood still for a moment, looking down j
through the gloom to the faint glimmer which just |
showed where Derwentwater lay in the valley below. I
She could see, too, the light on Lord^s Island, and the
light still burned in MichaePs room on St. Herbert's
Isle.

With a pang her uncle's words returned to her.
Could it indeed be true that he had loved her? She
walked sorrowfully down the hill, musing over the past,
thinking of the journey to Eaby Castle and of the days
there before Henry arrived, seeing many things in a
wholly different light, shuddering to think how all un-
consciously she had encouraged him. She had loved
him always, but merely as her foster-brother and old
playmate, while with him all had been different. Surely,
too, he was greatly changed since her betrothal. He
looked much older and graver; he eagerly availed him-
self of every excuse to avoid her, and though now so
near a neighbour, invariably put forward some excellent
reason for refusing the invitations of Sir Nicholas or
Father Noel. She had only met him once since his
return from London, and then his manner had beett
strange and constrained; while his reference to her
mother's death had been merely formal and had chilled \
rather than comforted her. Was this the explanation fc
of it all, and could it be, as her uncle said, that all the I
time Father Noel had known the truth of thiugs? I

HOPE THE HERMIT 217

then remembering the loneliness of Michael's
.y and the hard fate which had followed him
e very beginning of his life, the tears rushed to
\ and half blinded her.

iting of it lay in the perception that it was quite
ler power to do anything for him. If this were
true, Henry Bro\\Tirigg's jealousy and dislike
plained, and she could not hope even in the most
future to serve Michael. Brushing the tears
5r eyes that she might see her way, she was all
I horrified to find herself confronted by Tim
le and his lantern, while beside him toiled Meg
y, the miller^s wife.

^t talk to me of the Borrowdale Bogle! ' said Meg
y. ^ 'Twas nowt but thy ain foolish fancy.*
y it wtrz the bogle,' said Tim doggedly, 'and
a! there it goes glidin' awa' over the fell.'
opped dead, and with trembling hands raised the
so that its rays fell upon the tall ghostly figure
light plumes and antique cavalier dress.
MIounsey, the stubborn disbeliever in ghosts, fell
biees.

e preserve us!' she cried, quaking with terror,
the truth you told, Tim. And sair a doubt but
ill to my poor lass at the farm.'
where it stalks down yonder,' said Tim, staring
lated eyes at the ghost as it glided away and
iisappeared among the trees at the foot of the
Thank heaven, 'tis gone! ' he gasped. * Now
guid mother, lest it coom back! '
Meg Mounsey, nothing loth, rose from her knees
athlessly climbed the fell, now and then glancing
an awestruck way to see that the bogle was not
g them.

CHAPTEK XXIII

On the following morning the little town of Keswick
was, as usual, crowded with country-folk coming in to
dispose of their goods in the Market Square and to buy
necessaries for the coming week.

Zinogle, the fiddler, loved market day, for he was a
sociable being and took great pleasure in chatting with
the dales-folk and telling them the latest news. It was
therefore only natural that, as he leant against the door-
way of the old wooden building in the centre of the
square which was dignified by the name of the Town
Hall, he should be one of the first to listen to Tim
Grisedale's story of the Borrowdale Bogle.

Now, it chanced that the Under-Sheriff was standing
just inside the door, listening to the long-winded tale
of the constable in whose charge a certain prisoner in
the lock-up had proved refractory. Henry Brownrigg
found the tale of the Borrowdale Bogle the more inter-
esting of the two, and dismissing the constable with
orders to pimish the refractory prisoner and to have
him removed with all speed to Cockermouth gaol, he
stood listening carefully to what passed between the
shepherd and the fiddler.

^This looks strange,' he muttered to himself. 'K
was last night I saw the boat go across to Lord's Island
and searched the house. Is it possible that this ghost
can be the man we are in search of? '

*Look here, my good fellow,* he exclaimed, sud-
denly emerging from the doorway to Tim's coa-

HOPE THE HERMIT 219

Btemation^ ' at what time did you see this Borrowdale
Bogle?'

^ ky(y zur^ it were after midnight; mappen aboot two
o^ock or mappen a bit earlier, the first time/ said the
shepherd.

'You saw it twice, then? Whereabouts? '

' First by Barrow Qill, far up the fell, and again with
Meg Moimsey as I coom back, and then it were lower
doon the hill, stalkin' awa' over towards Falcon Crag,
but bearin' doon to the shore imtil I lost sight of it in
the trees/

'You are sure it was no idle fancy? You shepherd-
folk are apt to see visions/

' Zur, mappen that be true, but Meg Mounsey she be
solid and slow in the head-piece, and she saw it and
droppit on her knees, a-callin' herself a miserable sinner,
for, but a wee whilie afore, she had sworn there was no
sech things as bogles/

Zinogle chuckled.

' Meg Mounsey is evidence; no one can gainsay that,'
he said. ' A stuck pig has more imagination. If Meg
Moimsey saw a bogle, why, sir, the bogle must have been
there.'

'Dressed like a cavalier, you say, with light plumes
in its hat and a short cloak? 'Tis a strange story! I
have a mind to look into this matter. If I remember
right, there is some idle tale in the country-side about
one of the Eadcliffes that was killed in the civil war and
has ever since walked. We will set a few folk to look
for this disturber of the peace, and if you see it again,
Tim, let me know with all speed. Zinogle, if I mistake
not, yonder comes your godson, the foundling; have the
goodness to ask him to step across here and speak to
me.'

Zinogle, inwardly raging at the XJnder-Sheriff's rude-
iiess, slowly approached Michael.

aao HOPE THE HERMIT

* Our cock-a-hoop Under-sheriff desires speech with
ye/ he said, * and, for the love of Qod, do take him down
a peg or two; speak to him in the latest fangled London
fashion/

Michael laughed at the old fiddler^s comical expres-
sion, and in truth there was a new dignity in his manner
bom of self-restraint, and a certain nameless ease of
bearing gained by mixing more with his fellowmen.
Henry greeted him in his usual patronising tone, but
instinctively felt that he no longer had the power to
gall his old schoolfellow.

* There is a strange story afoot to-day about the Bor-
rowdale Bogle,^ he said when the salutations were over.
* Have you ever heard of it? As a native of Borrowdale,
you ought to know the truth of such things.'

^ Oh,' said Michael with a laugh, ^ I have heard that
old wife's tale many a time, but I never put any faith
in it.'

* What form is it supposed to take? '
*Why, the form of the young kinsman of old Sir

Edward Eadcliffe, who garrisoned Lord's Island in the
civil war. "lis true enough, I believe, that he was killed
in a duel on the shores of Derwentwater somewhere be-
tween Lord's Island and Lowdore, and of course the
dales-folk say that he walks.'

'You never by any chance saw him?' said Heniy
Brownrigg with a searching look.

'Never,' said Michael, 'nor do I expect ever to see
him.'

' Yet here is Tim Grisedale ready to take his Bible
oath that both he and Meg Mounsey of Lowdore saw
the ghost last night, or rather before dawn this morning.'

'Meg Mounsey! ' cried Michael, bursting into a hearty
boyish laugh. ' Well, that passes all belief ! If Meg
Mounsey takes to ghost-seeing I shall have to believe in
them, for a more matter-of-fact body doesn't exist.

HOPE THE HERMIT i2l

Surely ^twas something of a solid and corporeal nature
tiliat she saw, a white horse maybe, or a stray cow/

'Well, they described the ghost as in cavalier dress
^ith light plumes in his hat,' said the TJnder-Sheriff.
^Tis a very odd tale. If Audrey had seen it I should
not have been surprised, for she is out of health and
Iroods too much over her mother's death; moreover, she
las imagination, and, as you will remember, fancied she
saw a vision at Carleton Manor last year/

'Yes,' said Michael gravely, 'I could never under-
stand that story; it was one of the things which no one
can explain. Perhaps, after all, in certain states of mind
and body the spirit world can make itself visible to us.
I have no belief in this silly tale of the Borrowdale
Bogle, yet I confess to a sneaking belief in such a pur-
poseful return as that of the ghost in Hamlet This is
bad news as to the defeat off Beachy Head. I had heard
ixothing of it till this morning. How distracted the
poor Queen will be! Is there no news from Ireland? '
'None as yet,' said Henry Brownrigg gloomily.
* Things look black indeed for the future. Did you
Ixear anything before you left London of the Jacobite
plottings?'

' Oh! there was of course much talk about them,'
said Michael with a momentary hesitation which did not
escape the keen and observant Under-Sheriff.

'But naturally you did not hear anything but
Tumours. You did not happen to become acquainted
with any of these plotters? '

Now, Michael had a very shrewd suspicion that Mr.
Calverley was embroiled in the Jacobite plot, but he was
not minded to say so to Henry Brownrigg.

'I had little time for making acquaintance of any
sort,' he replied evasively. ' A private secretary has to
be at the beck and call of his master. And though Sir
Wilfrid Lawson is, as you know, the most considerate

823 HOPE THE HERMIT

of men^ this legal business of his gave one plenty to
do/

With that he raised his hat and bade the Under-
Sheriff good day, leaving him in some perplexity.

* I would give much to know whether that fellow is
in league with the priest on Lord^s Island/ he reflected.
* There was no getting anything out of hian to-day; yet
I am much inclined to fancy that he knows something
of Mr. John Eadcliffe, alias Mr. James Calverley. I
shall go in for a little ghost-stalking for the next week
or two, and see if I canH get hold of our fugitive.
Mounsey, the miller, will make a good patrol, and 111
bring over Matt Birkett from Millbeck; he is a wary
fellow and has the eyes of a hawk. If we can only get
hold of John Eadcliffe, it will suit my game admirably,
and should it chance that Michael Derwent is mixed up
in the affair, why, all the better, for I hate the fellow
and owe him a grudge.'

Audrey paid the penalty of her escapade by being
prostrated the next day by a violent attack of nervous
headache, called in those days an attack of the megrim,
and was still too poorly on the Sunday to go as usual
to the Church of St. Kentigern at Crosthwaite. Per-
haps she was not sorry to remain at home, for it deferred
her meeting with Henry, and somehow she dreaded this,
fearing that he might ask some unanswerable question,
or that she might by some hesitation of manner betray
the secret that had been entrusted to her.

Fortimately for her, the Under-Sheriff happened to
be unusually busy, and it was not imtil the afternoon of
Tuesday that he was able to visit Lord^s Island again.
Audrey was sitting in the orchard in one of her favour-
ite nooks under the apple trees that grew near the
water's edge on the south end of the island. She came
swiftly forward to greet her lover, forgetting for a mo-
ment all that had happened in the pleasure of his ap-

HOPE THE HERMIT aas

proach. What were Jacobite plots, or religious dif-
ferences^ or fugitive great-uncles when love was in
question?

For a time her tender womanliness called out all that
was best in Henry Brownrigg; he forgot his schemes,
and his sordid, hard-hearted plans for the future; just
for a little while he became what she dreamt him to be
— single-hearted, generous, and devoted.

^I was sorry,^ he said, ^to have to search the house
the other night. I hope, dear heart, you did not take
it amiss.'

* Why, no,' said Audrey. ^ You had to do your duty,
and I know you bear no ill will to my grandfather.'

'Indeed I do not,' he said. * Everyone respects Sir
Nicholas. But his brother is a very different man, a
dangerous plotter, a hard-hearted bigot, one that would
relentlessly persecute all who were not of his faith,
should his party ever return to power.'

^ But surely it never can return,' said Audrey eagerly.

' Indeed, there is grievous fear that it may,' said the
Under-Sheriff, and he spoke truly enough, for never
had England been in such jeopardy as during those
Bummer days. ^ Here is the English fleet disgracefully
beaten, and the French fleet, in unopposed possession of
the Channel, likely to swoop down at any time and
harry our coast. And there is this accursed Jacobite
plot, showing grievous dissensions in the country, and,
Worst of all, an express has just arrived with news that
King William has been wounded in Ireland on the banks
of the Boyne.'

Audrejr^s eyes flUed with tears; it was not only that
fte desperate condition of the country troubled her, but
ttat the miserable position she found herself in seemed
^ at once to grow intolerable. Was she, whose sym-
pathies were all with King William and Queen Mary,
*xid the cause they had come to defend, to be called

S24 HOPE THE HEkMIT

upon to tramp over the fells, bearing to the fugitive the
news he would gloat over of the King's wound?

* Don't fret over the disaster/ said Henry Brownrigg,
putting his arm round her. ' A wound in the shoulder
from a ball is a dangerous thing, and the King's con-
stitution is sickly, yet we may at least hope that his life
will be spared. And should the worst happen that
King James and his tyranny be brought back to this
land, why, I think Sir Nicholas Eadcliffe will do his
utmost to prevent any evil coming on his grand-
daughter's husband.'

He stooped and kissed her hand, and Audrey's spirits
revived a little as she remembered that Uncle Badcliffe
had himself spoken somewhat similar words as they
climbed the fells in the dark, and had reminded her that
she was, after all, serving her lover.

Still there remained with her the heavy sense that a
concealment was being practised, an unavoidable con-
cealment, but one that was nevertheless hateful to her;
while Henry Brownrigg also felt somewhat hampered
by his determination to say nothing to her as to the
story of the Borrowdale Bogle, and his suspicions and
precautions with regard to it.

A silence fell between them. Audrey's eyes wandered
to the wooded heights between Barrow Gill and Low-
dore, and she wondered how Uncle Eadcliffe was faring
in the cave where she had hidden him, and thought with
a shudder of the lonely walk she must take on Wednes-
day night. Henry meantime fell into a reverie, weigh-
ing the chances for and against his capturing John
Badcliffe, and wondering whether he could ply Audrey
with a few questions without putting her too much upon
her guard. He started a little when at last she spoke.

*Did you say, Henry, that King William had been
wounded during a battle?'

^No, they say he had just breakfasted beside the

I

HOPE THE HERMIT aas

toyne; on the opposite side of the river the Popish army
^as drawn up^ and just as the King mounted his horse

ball struck him. No doubt by this time the battle
iiey were then expecting has been fought. What would
ne not give to know which side had won! But news
ravels slowly; all this happened some days ago, yet the
ews only reached us here this afternoon.'

She sighed. * Let us talk no more of public matters/
he said wearily. ^ Instead let us plan the arrangements
or our wedding. You will not mind, Henry, if it is
luite a quiet wedding; it is too soon after our sorrow to
lave any merrymaking/

^I mind nothing so long as you will not again post-
[K)iie the day. Bemember that we arranged it should
be in August. You are sure your grandfather was not
Imrt by my visit the other night? You see it was a
matter of official duty. I had no choice but to search
for this refugee.'

' Oh, my grandfather understood that, and indeed he
Jaid you seemed to dislike your task,' said Audrey.

'What is Mr. John Sadcliffe like?' said Henry
Brownrigg, watching her narrowly as he put the
luestion.

She sprang quickly to her feet and took his hand in
tiers. *Come into the house,' she said. *His picture
liangs in the hall and you can judge for yourself.'

'Well!' thought Henry, 'evidently the uncle is not
We, or she would not suggest my coming in.'

'Fll not come in,' he said. 'It would scarcely be
courteous to Sir Nicholas after the other night. Tell
lie what your Uncle Eadcliffe is like.'

' Well, the picture was painted some years ago, but in
hose days of periwigs men change but little; no doubt
\ is still very much like him,' said Audrey reflectively,
ffe is standing very erect and looks active and vigorous;
is eyes look bright and eager, and his periwig is of a
16

226 HOPE THE HERMIT

rather bright light-brown colour, much like my hair.
He i8 twenty years younger than my grandfather, and
has always, they tell me, enjoyed the best of health, so
that people often fancy he is younger than he really is.'

* Is he a tall man?^

* I remember once hearing my grandfather say that
he was a somewhat small-made man, much about the
same height and build as Michael Derwent,' said Audrey,
surprised by the calmness of her own manner.

* Derwent canH be more than five foot seven or eight/
said Henry Brownrigg, drawing himself up in the proud
consciousness of his six feet three inches, and unable to
resist a sneer at his old schooKellow. ^ I well remember
what a puny little fellow he was as a boy. Well, my
love, I must not linger here. I shall see you again
doubtless in a few days^ time.^

For a moment Audrey felt relieved that he shoidd go; I
then reproaching herself with the feeling, she took leave
of him with a tenderness and a warmth of demonstra-
tion which she seldom manifested.

* Oh! if only Uncle Eadcliffe were safely out of the
country! ^ she thought to herself as she felt Henry's
strong arm about her. * How restful and safe all woiild
be! How Henry would shield me and care for me!'

* Clearly Audrey has not seen this Jacobite kinsman/
reflected the Under-SheriflE, *yet, for all that, he may
very likely be sheltering in the neighbourhood. That
priest with his humbugging knee — ^all a sham, no doubt
— ^would be quite capable of hiding him, for he knows
the fells better than anyone about here. I shall keep
on the alert and have my sentinels in readiness.'

CHAPTEK XXIV

RecoUeciwM of Michcui Derwent,

The chronicle begun long ago in the qniet of the
long vacation at Cambridge hath remained untonched
for many months. For by the time I had written of
my arrival in London, of my first impressions of Sir
William Denham^s household, and of the eventful even-
ing at Whitehall when I first encountered Mr. James
Calveriey, there seemed little time for writing. For
London, I perceive, is a place where all is haste and
bustle, where men talk, and argue, and jostle up against
each other, but where it is no easy task to think, or to
read or to write in peace and quiet.

Nevertheless, that which is not done at once remains

undone, for now, sitting in solitude in my room on St.

Herbert's Isle, that brief stay in London seems to me

like a dream, and for the most part a dream I care not

to dwell upon. Specially I would fain free my mind

from the remembrance of the hours spent with James

Calveriey and his friends, for though at the time they

had a strange fascination about them, I know well that

had it not been for other influences, these subtle men,

with their arguings and their specious reasoning, would

have had me ere long in their power and used me as

their tool. London, however, though it brought me

face to face with evil of every sort, brought me also the

best of gifts. For, apart from the gift of a good mother,

and a true and loving wife, — ^luxuries which fate had

aa8 HOPE THE HERMIT

denied to me, — ^there is no gift to be compared to the
friendship of an unselfish and pure-minded woman.

During these hard days after my return, when the
knowledge that Audrey was close at hand, though for
ever cut off from me, made me at times well-nigh des-
perate, it was the thought of Mistress Mary Denham,
and of the quiet courage with which she lived her life,
that proved my best support. Many a time, too, I lived
over again our visit to the Friends^ meeting-house and
the memorable day when we heard George Fox; while
to her also I owed introductions to many of the most
noteworthy people, to the sweet-natured Lady Temple,
to the delightful family of the Evelyns, and to the Dean
of St. PauFs. I am sure Dean Tillotson's broad-hearted
charity and practical religion keep many men nowa-
days from drifting into utter unbelief when sickened by
the bickerings and wranglings of those who make more
of their pet dogmas than of Christianity itself, — ^which,
as the Dean teaches, is Love. Dogmatic teachers always
make me think of physicians who, while the patient is
dying of starvation and want of care, insist that he shall
first rehearse the names science has given to every bone
in the body. Worse still, the physicians do not agree
with each other and quarrel while the poor wretch is at
his last gasp; one set declaring that he will regain health
by certain movements of the arms, the other faction
contending that the legs are the important members.

Unless some sensible good Samaritan chances to pass
that way, the victim is apt to expire, muttering the
words of the dying Mercutio:

* A plague on both your houses ! '

I had written thus far when one of the children ran
into the room bearing a letter which had been brought |g
over by a messenger from Keswick. I saw at once that

HOPE THE HERMIT 229

it was from Mistress Mary Denham. and breaking the
seal,-a very dainty on77green wax', bearing the device
' Sursum cor da/ — I read the following lines:

*8ir:

We were glad to learn that you had made a safe joarney to
the north, and regret much that Sir Wilfrid should have found
80 dire a foe as the small-pox to greet him at Isel. Your de-
scription of the solitude of the island on Derwentwater reads
strangely here in London, and I think from what you say that
it is something of a trial to you to be once more in a place
where all outwardly is the same as in old days, while in other
respects so much has altered. But, after all, this letter is not
just to say that I am sorry for your loneliness, but to tell you
of a matter which I think may interest you. This day Lady
Temple came to see me, and we spoke much of the arrest of the
Jacobite plotters and of all suspected persons. The most note-
worthy is her Majesty^s uncle, my Lord Clarendon, who is
now lodged in the Tower, and that Catholic gentleman you
used to meet at Mr. Winter's chambers — ^Mr. Anthony Sharp—
18 also arrested : it seems that he is a priest in disguise. Lady
Temple told me that a warrant was also made out for the arrest
of ^. James Calyerley, but that he had contrived to leave
London. Now comes the strange part : it seems that Calverley
was but an assumed name, and that he is in truth a Mr. John
HadcMe, younger brother and heir to Sir Nicholas Radcliffe,
your friend on Lord's Island. This will perhaps explain Father
Joel's friendship with him, and the civility he showed to you.
The poor Queen is well-nigh distracted with anxiety and grief,
^or indeed the country seems to be in great danger, and she
^arcely knows who may be reckoned on as trustworthy friends
^d advisers. I think there never can have been a more de-
moted wife than she ; 'tis a grievous pity that his Majesty is
Merely a brave soldier, and scarce merits such a noble woman
^ his Queen. I fear, from what Lady Temple says, he is one of
i^hose who will learn, too late, rightly to value what they have
ost, and will be of the many husbands who erect fine tomb-
'tones with touching epitaphs to their wives, yet when they »f
vere living could not even be faithful to them. i

My uncle sends you his kind remembrances, and says that if ^ ''
on have leisure you would do him a great service by making

230 HOPE THE HERMIT

that collection of all the moths to be found in the woods sur
rounding Derwentwater which we talked of before you lef
London. He and his friend Dr. Martin Lister have alread]
receiyed fine specimens from diverse counties. Dr. Lister sayi
the best way to set about it is to go out when it is dark, bavin^
previously, by day, put treacle on the trunks of certain trees.
This attracts the moths, and you will find no difficulty in cap-
turing them. Yet have a care, or someone may mistake you foi
a highwayman, or for the ghost you told me of which baunk
Borrowdale I There is as yet no book writ upon moths, thougli
the late Mr. Willoughby had often desired to attempt the stud}
of them, but died before he could carry it out. I hope to secure
some at Eatterham, and should you have an opportunity oj
sending any specimens to London they had best be directed t(
Sir William, for I shall be with my uncle, Sir Joscelyn Hey-
worth, at the Court House for the next two months. Mr.
Whamcliffe has just been to call upon us. He says that to-da}
he met Mr. Winter on the stairs at his chambers in King'f
Bench Walk, and that, happening to meDtion something as tc
Mr. Calverley's escape, Mr. Winter said he had heard a rumoui
that he had fled to France, but knew not if 'twas true. I give
it you for what 'tis worth, knowing that you had some liking
fo^ him and, though not approving his views, would scarce
wish him to be thrown into prison merely on suspicion. I can
never think of the inside of our prisons without a shudder, for
truly they are hells on earth. It hurts one to see the poor souls
being dragged to Tyburn, perhaps just for some petty theft,
and yet I am not sure that it is not a better fate than to linger
on in gaol, for God is merciful and men are not. We were
trying the other night, as we read Willoughby's book on birds,
to remember some of your Borrowdale names for them, but I
could not get further than *' Jack-eslop " for a kite, and " Joan-
na-ma-cronk " for a heron ! I think you must have more time
in your part of the world, or you would never use such long
names ! Do not forget to tell us any observations you make,
as to any kind of animal life, for it is the one thing now which
interests Sir William. As he grows older he takes less and
less interest in politics, having, I think, lived through too many
changes to be surprised at anything. But they say he never
was at heart aught but a naturalist ; and Uncle Heyworth htf
a story of how, when he was made prisoner in the civil war, and

HOPE THE HERMIT 231

Uncle Denham and my father were appointed as the officers
who were responsible for him, Uncle Denham crowded up the
little room they shared in Farnham Castle, with spiders and
newts and frogs, on which he was experimenting ; these crea-
tures — not being on paroU — were always escaping, while poor
Uncle Heyworth had to stay, eating his heart out as a prisoner
of war.

However, I ramble on about the past when at any moment
we may liave the French fleet in the Thames, and London at-
tacked. It were better to despatch this letter to you at once,
specially as my cousin Rupert promises to take it himself as
far as York and to send it on safely from there.

With kind remembrances from us all,

I rest, your friend.

Mart Denham.
Written at Norfolk Street,
This 27th day of June, 1690.'

There was not a word in the letter of Audrey Rad-
cliffe, and yet I knew that Mistress Denham understood
why it was that this enforced stay on St. Herberfs Isle
was so specially hard to me. She knew my story and
readily divined much that I had never told her in words.
More than once we had spoken, however, of the difficul-
ties of the position and of the best course to steer. Nor
was I without a shrewd suspicion that all this study of
moths was with a view to giving me something fresh to
think of, and to keep me from dwelling on those past
memories which made every part of Derwentwater and
Borrowdale a place of pain and peril to me.

Turning over the sheet once more, I read her words

about James Calverley, and marvelled to think that I

had never guessed his secret. For now, that I thought

of it, I well remembered his picture, taken in early life,

and had often looked at it in the hall at Lord's Island.

JSTo doubt that subtle attraction he had possessed for me

lay in his unknown kinship with Audrey. And then

a fresh thought rushed into my mind and put me to no

232 HOPE THE HERMIT

small perturbation. Had he and his friends succeeded
in bringing me over to the Bomish Church, woidd they
have tried to stop the Brownrigg marriage, which was so
distastefid to them? Was this perhaps what Father
Noel had all the time been aiming at? Was this his
reason for deliberately forcing me that time in the pre-
vious autumn to be as much as might be in Audrey's
presence? It seemed possible, and, much as I hated
Henry Brownrigg, the thought of playing so mean a part
made me recoil. A thousand times I blessed Mistress
Denham for having saved me from falling a victim to
the arguments of Anthony Sharp and James Calverley,
and with an effort I banished Audrey^s face from my
mind and plunged desperately into the dreary work of
correcting my pupils^ Latin exercises.

The next few days were eventfid. First came the
news of the terrible disaster off Beachy Head, and dread
of a French invasion of the southern countries filled the
whole land with a panic which is indescribable. Then
soon after came the woeful tidings that King William
had been wounded in Ireland. By the time the news
reached Paris, they told us afterwards that the wound
had become magnified into a fatal wound, and the
French had burnt his effigy in triumph, together with
the effigy of the devil bearing a scroll with the saying—
^ I have been waiting for thee these two years.'

It was, I must own, in great dejection that I rowed
into Keswick on the afternoon of Wednesday, the 9th
July, to leam if any fresh news had been received. It
was one of those cloudy days with every now and then
bright gleams of sunshine, which we so often get in these
parts. To the north the great mass of Skiddaw was
flecked with purple shadows, while the Vale of Newlands
was filled with mist, out of which the mountains rose
like rocks from sea-foam.

Just as I gained the landing-stage and moored the boat

HOPE THE HERMIT a33

the sun shone out gloriously^ and, looking back, I saw
that grand vista in which you look up the whole length
of Derwentwater with its wooded shores and islands, and
from end to end of craggy Borrowdale, the rugged
heights of Olaramara blocking the southern end, and
Castle Crag guarding what we call the jaws of the dale.
As I looked, the bell of Crosthwaite Church rang out
a joyful peal, — surely that must mean that good news
had arrived. Hurrying into the little market town, I
eagerly inquired, and soon learnt that the bells were
being rung because King William's wound had proved
to be of the slightest and because, on the following day,
he had gained a great victory over King James, who
had deserted his army and was flying with all speed to
France, leaving the poor Irish who had rallied in his
support to shift for themselves as best they might. I
rowed back, feeling as though a huge load had been
lifted off my heart, but as I passed Lord's Island my
own personal trouble seized upon me once more, for
there, down by the shore, feeding her swans, stood
Audrey, and catching sight of me, she gave the clear,
ringing call with which we had always signalled to each
other as children. I had no choice but to obey her, but
I determined not to quit the boat.

*What are the church bells ringing for?' she asked
eagerly. *I had heard of no wedding.'

I remembered with a pang that probably the next
time they rang a peal it woidd be for her marriage with
the Under-Sheriff, which they told me had been fixed
lor next month; it almost seemed as if she read my
thoughts, for suddenly a burning flush rose in her
cheeks and her eyes grew bright as if with imshed
tears.

* The bells ring because of King William's victory in
the battle of the Boyne,' I replied, * and because King
James has deserted the Irish as he deserted the English,

I

234 HOPE THE HERMIT

and is by this time, no doubt, safely in France. Th
news has been long in reaching us, for the battle, the;
say, was fought on the first of this month; we are alway
somewhat behind the time in these parts/

* Then you think the country is out of danger? ^ she
asked with anxious eyes.

* Yes, people say that a battle so decisive must prac-
tically end the war in Ireland, and the French King will
scarcely stand by such a poltroon as King James. Truly
he seems to think only of himself! He is curiously
lacking in his father^s courage. How is Father Noers
knee?*

* It still disables him,* said Audrey. ^ Will you not
come in and see him? He will want to hear the news/

But I was not minded to stay longer than I need in
her company, which had no good eflEect on me, while
the prospect of telling news which must be unwelcome
to one of Father NoeFs way of thinking, did not attract
me. I made a hurried excuse, and wishing her good-
day, rowed off to St. Herbert's Isle.

I wondered that she did not hasten into the house to
carry the news to her grandfather; perhaps she felt that
it would be unpleasant to bear him news which could
hardly fail to pain any Eoman Catholic. At any rate,
she stood there on the shore, now and then throwing a
bit of bread to her swans, but always with her eyes fol-
lowing my boat. I watched her till I could distinguish
nothing but her black dress against the green of the
trees in the background, and a bright gleam where the
sunshine fell upon her hair. All the time, through the
aching of my heart, there was an odd consciousness d
having lived through this before, not only this slow
separation — ^this parting long drawn out — from Audrey,
but also the passionate inward appeal against a fate
which seemed always to be against me.

Then, suddenly, as I glanced towards Lowdore, it

~ 1

HOPE THE HERMIT 355

came back to me. I was once more a little child, sob-
bing on the grass, and Audrey^s boat had become a mere
speck in the distance.

* Snoggles! ^ I had cried, * was it wrong of me to be
picked up under a bush? ^

And dear old Zinogle had allowed me to bury my face
in his rough frieze coat, and had said that I need feel no
shame, and that hope was to be my guiding star.

Well, just now there did not seem much left to hope
for— only, in fact, to hope that I might live through
this evil time bravely, not bitterly, and prove myself
not wholly unworthy of the friendship of Mistress
Denham.

Thinking of her thus, I resolved to go mothing that
evening, and hailing two of the children who stood by
the landing-place on St. Herbert^s Isle, bade them run
and ask Dickon^s wife for some treacle. Then we all
three rowed across to the woods on the eastern shore
of Derwentwater, about opposite the little islet of
Eampsholme, and, having prepared the tree-trunks
according to Mistress Denham^s directions, returned
home to get ready such things as would be wanted that
night — ^a dark lantern, a wallet, and sundry little boxes
for the moths I hoped to capture.

The house on Herbert^s Isle was but small, and now,
that some of the Isel servants were sick with the small-
pox, we lived very quietly, there being on the island
only myself and my two pupils, and Dickon and his wife
who lived always in the island house, taking charge of it
and waiting upon us. It must have been about ten
o'clock that I bade Dickon good-night, telling him that
I hoped to return from my mothing expedition in about
an hour^s time, and carrying with me the key of the
house door, although, indeed, it was scarce likely that
any should try to enter during my absence.

The night was cloudy, though, being still early in

236 HOPE THE HERMIT

July^ it was not so dark but that one conld see the out-
lines of the mountains and make out easily enough the
place where we had landed in the afternoon. Any sort
of hunt is not without pleasure to a man, and I confess
to having forgotten everjrthing else in the eager pursuit
of my treacle-lured victims, which, truly enough, were
on the tree-trunks, as Mistress Denham had said, when
the sound of steps and voices close by made me start
violently.

* Tut, tut, man,' said one of the voices, * Hwas nowt
but thy fancy/

* Nay, 'twas the bogle,' said the other, and I at once
recognised the voice of Mounsey, the miller of Lowdore.

^ Hullo, Mounsey! ' I cried, willing to relieve the
man's abject terror. ^'Tis not the Borrowdale Bogle.
'Tis I, Michael Derwent. What are you doing here at
this time of night? '

'Why, sir, I'm main glad to see you,' gasped the
miller. *Me and Matt Birkett of Millbeck have been
set by the Under-Sheriff to find out the truth of this
Borrowdale Bogle that has been seen by many of late.
Mr. Brownrigg, he will get to the bottom of it, he says,
and if so be it be one of the lads dressed up just to
scare the women-folk, he says he'll have him set in the
stocks. My gude wife has been ill ever since the night
she saw the bogle by Barrow Gill.'

* Oh! I heard it had been seen,' I said, laughing.
*And Tim Grisedale saw it first of all, I understand.
Who else has come across it? '

* Well, sir, there be Nanny, the dairjonaid at Ashness
Farm. She has been scared nearly out of her senses,
for, waking at dawn and going down to see some sickly
chicken she was nursing up, she saw the bogle making
as though it would drown itself in the beck, but couldna
drown, being only a spirit. Then it wrung its hands
very sorrowfully, and before she could stir for fright.

HOPE THE HERMIT 237

it had disappeared in Ashness woods, whereat Nanny
fell a-screeching like an owl, and frightened the whole
household/

'Mr. Brownrigg/ said Matt Birkett, a dour-looking
man, who spoke now for the first time, * puts little faith
in ghosts and bogles, and thinks more likely 'tis some
worthless loon, a thieving Scot, or a highwayman. But,
after all, sir, it may have been just yoursel', if I might
mak' bold to ask what you are doing.'

' I am catching moths,' I said, showing them one of
my prisoners. They stared at me so incredulously that
I thought they fancied me mad. ^ But this is the first
night I have been out,' I explained; ^so the ghost has
still to be accounted for.'

* 'Tis blawin' up for rain,' said Mounsey. * Coom to
the mill. Matt Birkett, and shelter awhile. Nowt can
pass by the mill, be it bogle or body, without my seeing
it from the window of my gude wife's kitchen.'

'Good-night, sir,' said Birkitt, still eyeing me sus-
piciously as I added another moth to my collection.

' Good-night,' I said cheerfully. * Good luck to you
in your bogle-hunt.'

Alas! had I but known what would follow, those
were the very last words that would have crossed my
lips.

The two men tramped off in the direction of Low-
dore, and by the time their steps had died away in the
distance, I had all my boxes full, and was about to go
back to the boat, when something made me glance along
the mule track which led to Keswick. My heart began
to throb painfully, for, gliding swiftly towards me, I saw
the Borrowdale Bogle. My lantern had gone out, but
by this time my eyes had grown so accustomed to the
midsummer twilight that I could clearly make out the
details of the cavalier dress which Mounsey had de-
scribed to us in the Market Square on the previous

238 HOPE THE HERMIT

Saturday. The wind, which was blowing strongly from
the southwest, blew back the folds of the short cloak
it was wearing, and revealed the white shirt beneath and
the long, thin hands, which seemed to grip fast hold of
a cord slung over its shoulder, as though the bogle car-
ried some burden. There was something so eerie in
the noiseless way in which it steadily approached me
that I would have given worlds to turn and rush down
to my boat. I am ashamed to say that it cost me a hard
struggle to move forward and meet this uncanny crea-
ture; however, I did move slowly up to the path, and
almost immediately the ghost stood stock-still. At this
my courage rose a little.

* If it tries to escape I will pursue it,^ I thought to
myself, ^and if it comes on, why, it must surely cross
the plank bridge. I will stand here on the bank and
see it face to face.^

There had, during the last two or three days, been
much rain, and the little beck which flows down bewixt
Walla Crag and Falcon Crag had become a torrent. It
came roaring and tumbling over its stony bed, while the
wind moaned among the trees and heavy drops of rain
began to fall. Still the ghost stood motionless, and
still I kept guard by the bridge until I began to wish it
would come on and end the tension of this waiting. At
last it slowly glided towards me, and I candidly own
that my knees began to knock together. If only the
mill had been nearer I shoidd have called to Birkett
and Mounsey merely for the comfort of their fleshly
presence. For, alone in a desolate bit of country late
at night, a ghost is not companionable. The creature,
too, as it approached me more nearly, raised one of its
long, bony hands and pointed a ghostly finger in mj
direction, at which, I knew not why, a cold shudder
ran through me, and again the impulse to make for the
boat was well-nigh irresistible. After all, what was ^

HOPE THE HERMIT 239

gained by facing this Borrowdale Bogle? It was
ry Brownrigg who wanted to fathom the mystery,
should I put myself to all this discomfort when the
er-Sheriff was the last man in the world I cared to
je?

CHAPTER XXV

Audrey, although a brave girl, had been of late
much out of health, and her nerves had by no means
recovered from the shock of her mother^s death. Hence
it was natural enough that, on the Wednesday night as
she rowed across to Stable Hill, and sprang ashore with
the provisions for John Eadcliffe, she should be a prey
to all sorts of terrors. As she crossed the field a sonnd
of something breathing close by made her tremble from
head to foot, but the breather proved to be only a cow;
while another sound, which seemed horribly like foot-
steps pursuing her, turned out to be nothing but one
of the farm horses cropping the grass. How it was she
could not tell, but the walk along the mule track, which
had seemed quite short when she was with her uncle,
seemed now in her loneliness tediously long. Whenever
she looked up through the trees, the fir-fringed outlines
of Walla Crag always towered above her, until she almost
despaired of ever reaching Ashness woods with her
heavy burden. She was just wondering to herself
whether Tim Grisedale and Meg Mounsey had spread
the alarm in Grange as to the bogle, when, to her hor-
ror, she saw the figure of a man emerge from among
the trees by the shore. She stood still in mortal terror.
Perhaps he had not seen her? But, alas! there could
be little doubt as to that, for he remained fixedly watch-
ing her, and at length took up a position close to the
foot-bridge which woidd compel her to pass him quite
close unless, indeed, she turned back. But Audrey

HOPE THE HERMIT 241

came of a stock which did not approve of turning back^
and^ at last^ taking her courage in both hands^ she re-
solved to go on^ hoping to scare this fellow as she had
scared the shepherd. Drawing herself to her full
lieight^ she raised a threatening hand and pointed away
into the distance^ hoping that the man would turn to
see what she was indicating. He moved slightly, and,
without looking at him, she made a dash for the bridge.
Then instantly she felt strong arms thrown round her,
and the man dragged her back from the plank.

'So,* he cried, *you are no ghost, after all! What
do you mean, you miscreant, by frightening the dales-
folk in this way?'

Then, in her rapture of relief, she turned and faced
Wm; nay, she clung to him, sobbing.

*0h. Mid is it you, after all? I was so frightened,
50 dreadfully frightened! ' she cried.

For a minute she recollected nothing, so exquisite was
he sense that all her perils were over; that Michael, her
>est friend, her old playmate, coidd be trusted to bring
ler safely through all her difficulties. How tenderly,
et how closely, he held her! But he was absolutely
ilent, and all at once there flashed back into her mind
he thought which her uncle had first suggested to her
nly a few evenings before. Could it indeed be that he
oved her? Did that account for his formal manner
hat afternoon and ior this strange silence now? It
ras well that she could not see his face, for the passion
nd pain in it would have terrified her. As it was,
ome instinct made her come to his help by gently f ree-
ag herself from him, and turning to face the wind, he
ore off his cravat like a man who was choking.
*Did I startle you 60 much?* she asked.
He laughed wildly; it seemed so strange to him that
he did not understand it was love for her that had
riven all else from his mind, that it was the vehemence

16

242 HOPE THE HERMIT

of a passion long controlled but still existent which had
surged up within him, and that the intolerable pain in
his throat made speech for the moment impossible.

But he quickly regained his self-mastery, and, turn-
ing towards her again, wrapped her cloak about her and
picked up the heavy bag she had let fall.

* Where can I carry this for you?' he said, speaking
now very gently. Yet there was something in his tone
which made her cry. * DonH, Audrey! Don't! ' he said
pleadingly. * It is an eerie place and a dark night for
you to be walking about alone. Only let me help you.
I will ask no questions.'

*You are so good, Mic!' she said, instinctively fall-
ing back to her old childish name for him. *But,
though you do not ask, I must tell you the whole truth,
for maybe this will bring you into trouble. Leave me
to go on alone. I am on an errand to one of my own
kin; for me it is a clear duty, but for you, I doubt folk
would call it by a harsher name.'

Instantly he knew that the fugitive John Eadcliffe
must be sheltering in the neighbourhood.

* I can guess your errand,' he said. * I learnt by a
letter from London to-day that there is a warrant out
against your great-uncle; 'twas thought he had escaped
to France, but I suppose he is sheltering here.'

*I am glad you have guessed,' said Audrey; 'I am
going now to him with food, and also to take him the
news from Ireland. Now leave me, Mic. I know the
way well, and it is not likely that I shall meet with
anyone else.'

* Indeed, I wish I could feel so sure of that,' said
Michael, * but Mr. Brownrigg has set Mounsey and an-
other fellow to track this Borrowdale Bogle. Very
likely, if he happens to know that Mr. EadcliflEe is sus-
pected of being concerned in the plot, he calls it a
ghost-hunt, but in his heart he suspects that the ghost is

HOPE THE HERMIT 243

a Jacobite. You had a very narrow escape to-night,
for Mounsey and Birkett were on this very spot but a
little while since, and at first took me for the ghost.
They have gone on now to the mill. Where have you
sheltered your uncle? '

' In Ashness woods, in our old place there.*

^ Then let us come here at once. I'll row you in
my boat as far as Barrow Bay, and then, if the coast
is clear and Birkett still safely at Lowdore, we can
climb the fell together.'

Audrey was so much startled to hear of her lover's
precautions as to the ghost that she could not hesitate
any more as to allowing Michael to run the risk of
helping her uncle.

* Henry does know that there is a warrant out against
Uncle Eadcliffe,' she said. * Only the other night he
came to search our house for him. That is why he is
obliged to shelter among the hills/

^ He will not be safe even there,' said Michael, lead-
ing the way, as he spoke, down the wooded bank to Scarf
Close Bay, where his boat was moored. * The people at
the farm have a story of seeing the bogle disappear into
Ashness wood early one morning. We must somehow
manage to get your uncle away, or assuredly the Under-
Sheriff will get hold of him. Now, we had best not
talk, for water carries the sound of voices as nothing
else does. Lie down in the bottom of the boat and
I will cover you with my cloak; the bag for your
head to rest on. So! Now, FU soon row to Barrow
Bay.'

Audrey crept down into the friendly shelter of the
boat with a restful sense that the worst was over. Then,
too, there was something natural to her in taking part
in an adventure with Michael. It brought back the
days of their childhood so vividly. Yet, although as
she nestled down in the stem she could almost have

244 HOPE THE HERMIT

fancied herself a child again^ Michael had^ on the other
hand^ developed in a curious way. She found herself
looking up to him as though he had been some years
older than herself. All too soon they reached Barrow,
and Michael, having carefully reconnoitred and found
the coast clear, came back to help her from the boat,
and swinging the bag across his shoiQder, walked with
her to John EadcliflEe's sheltering-place.

* I ought to tell you/ he said, when they found them-
selves in the wood, * that in the letter I had to-day from
Mistress Mary Denham she tells me that Mr. John Ead-
cliflfe is none other than the Mr. Calverley to whom
Father Noel gave me a letter of introduction in London.
I met him many times, never of course guessing that
he was akin to you. That, however, doubtless explains
the curious attraction he always had for me.*

Those last words slipped from him inadvertently.
Audrey blushed, and was glad that he coidd not see her
face.

* Who is Mistress Mary Denham? * she asked.

* A very great friend of mine,* he said warmly. * The
niece of Sir Wilfrid^s friend, with whom we stayed in
London.*

• Now, ' friend * was a word which, like the word * ser-
vant,* bore in those days more than one meaning.
Audrey wondered whether, after all, Michael was this
lady*s lover. She ought, no doubt, to have welcomed
this idea as a relief from the notion that he had loved
her and was still Henry*s rival. But, for some unex-
plained reason, she did not welcome it. It somehow
disturbed her.

* I am your oldest friend,* she said, laughing a little.
* I believe I could find it in my heart to be jealous of
this fine lady in London.*

' You do not know me, if you can speak like that,* he
said, hurt by her tone. *She is to me like an elder

HOPE THE HERMIT 245

Bister, whereas you — ^you ^ he broke off abruptly^

choking with emotion.

'I don^t understand/ said Audrey, but the tears in
her voice belied the words; she was beginning to under-
stand only too well.

'You never did understand me,' said Michael, re-
proachfully. 'You thought when I came back from
Cambridge as a man that we could once more be com-
rades as when we were children in Borrowdale. You
played with me that time at Baby Castle; at least it was
play to you. Take care of that branch I '

He turned to hold it back for her, and felt two hot
tears fall on his hand.

' Audrey! ' he cried, dismayed to think of the confes-
Jion into which he had been betrayed; ' forgive me! I
neant to have kept silence. I have tried my very ut-
nost to avoid you. All I ask now is to help you in
his affair with Mr. John Eadcliffe. Since Mr. Brown-
\gg can't help you in this I have at least the right to
hield you from danger. How they could let you come
11 this way alone at night I can't conceive.'

'My grandfather liked it ill enough,' said Audrey,
egaining her composure with an effort, ' but there was
10 one else. Father Noel can scarcely put his foot to
he ground, and old Duncan — ^the only other person
vho knows — was far too rheumatic to hobble all this
vay even had he known of the hiding-place. I don't
ieserve it, !Mic, but I think God sent you to take care
3f me.'

Her tone, and the humility of the words, brought
^lim back to his bearings. Once more he became his
best self — manly, chivalrous, and self-forgetful. He
began to discuss with her the best way of getting the
hgitive to the sea-coast, and presently Audrey gave the
cry which she had agreed on as the signal with her
^cle, and they heard his low whistle in response. In

246 HOPE THE HERMIT

a few minutes more they had gained the cave, and J'
Radeliffe sprang up from his bed of heather and lin|
greet Audrey. He had been reading by the light (
small lantern carefully screened from view by a bouli
but when he saw that his niece had someone with
a sudden look of terror passed over his face.

'Who is this?^ he exclaimed. 'How is it that
are not alone?'

' Uncle/ cried Audrey, ' you are in no danger; thi
Michael Derwent, who accidentally came across me i
Scarf Close Bay.'

' What! Mr. Derwent? ' exclaimed the refugee, 1(
ing sharply into the face of Audrey's companion.

Michael stood just outside the cave, and the lam
clearly revealed every feature of John Eadcliffe's i
He saw surprise, perplexity, doubt, and misgiving
printed on it; then, at last, came a sort of mischiei
amusement, strange enough when one considered
position.

' Come in, Mr. Derwent,' he said, holding out
hand and giving him a cordial welcome. ' I know
had your suspicions of me the night we last met, w
that fool Enderby came in with his talk about St. (
mains and his hints about the lemon. You were
honourable guest, and went away and kept silence,
know you are one who can be trusted.'

'"Sir,' said Michael, ' I am not like Mr. Brownrigg
an ofl&cial position, and am not minded to go hum
the brother of one who has always been good to
But I must tell you frankly that I abhor your plots
will have no hand in helping you unless you promis
leave England as soon as possible.'

John Eadcliffe laughed good-humouredly.

' Well spoken, my boy,' he said. ' And, as for m
abhor your views, but I'm hanged if I won't stand
jou when King James comes to his own again and

HOPE THE HERMIT 2An

faith is once more established in England. You are
just the sort to go to the stake for some trumpery
opinion, but curse me if I would let the best Catholic in
the land roast you. Come, sit down and let us sup
together. You have had a long walk. What's in that
bag, Audrey?'

' I have brought you fresh food, uncle,' she said, sit-
ting down by him on the heather, * but there is news
which first you will want to hear. King William has
defeated the Catholic army in a great battle on the
banks of the Boyne, and King James has deserted the
Irish and has fled back to France.'

John Radcliffe's face fell; he muttered a deep oath.

' That's bad hearing,' he said. * It means that all is
lost. Oh, what a miserable thing it is to have for king
and leader a man who thinks first of saving his own
skin! Your Dutchman lacks the fine manner of the
Stuarts, but, curse him, he is at any rate a brave soldier
and a bom leader. Well, my pretty niece, the game is
Over. I throw up the sponge. And now the question
is, How am I to get to the sea-coast and make my way
to Ireland or to France? '

' It must be done quickly,' said Michael. * Indeed I
think we had best shift your hiding-place to-night, sir,'
and then together they told him of the serious risk he
i*an of being discovered by the Under-Sheriff.

'Mounsey and Birkett watch the mule track from
Keswick to Borrowdale,' said Audrey, *and we could
scarcely escape through Grange, but surely by boat we
might safely manage it. Pursuit would be difficult.'

^You must somehow start by to-morrow night, at
latest, for Workington,' said Michael. * There you will
easily be able to take ship. With your permission, sir,
1 will go to-night to Lord's Island and talk things over
^th Father Noel.'

John Badcliffe listened in silence to this suggestion;

248 HOPE THE HERMIT

a sense of shame stole over him — shame such as he hac
never before experienced. He looked across the shalloi^
cave to the place where Michael sat, his fine, expressivi
face clearly outlined against the grey rock; a boyish fac(
still, though bearing signs of that inner conflict withoui
which no really strong character can be developed.

Should he, as Father Noel urged him, own the truth?
The words trembled upon his lips, but then he reflected
that Michael's indignation against the unknown father
who had deserted him had been expressed in no meas-
ured terms in London — that he had then been only
thirsting to discover the man for the sake of avenging
his mother. He dared not own the truth now, for
might not Michael refuse to help him in his escape?
Might he not even, in his just wrath, denounce him to
the authorities?

There was silence in the cave for some minutes; both
Audrey and her uncle instinctively watched Michael,
who was evidently deep in thought. Outside the rain
pattered down steadily, in the way truly characteristic
of Cumberland.

^I have it,^ said Michael at length. *This rain of
the last few days is all in our favour, for the Derwent
is fuller than I have ever known it. My plan is this.
Let us take Mr. Eadcliffe to-night to our hiding-place
in the Happy Valley; that is a place where not a soul
but ourselves is likely to go. Hidden there among the
brushwood, he will be safe for twenty-four hours, and
we will come to-morrow night, landing opposite Man-
esty meads, and get him safely into our boat. Then
we can all three row the length of Derwentwater, and
at the outlet at the further end, where the Derwent
flows towards Bassenthwaite, I will to-morrow moor one
of the St. Herbert^s Isle boats, and will stow away in it
a disguise of some sort for Mr. Badcliffe. He and I
together can then row to Bassenthwaite, where he can

HOPE THE HERMIT 249

be set down well on his way to Workington by dawn,

while you will have quietly rowed back alone the short

distance to Lord's Island/
^ *Why not take the one boat the whole distance?'

said John Radclifle.
^ It will be better for Audrey to go home/ he replied;

^the risk would be less for all of us. Besides, it will
be light by the time I can return, for, though we shall
rush down the Derwent easily enough with the current,
it will be stiff work getting the boat back. If she were
there with me, then suspicion would be roused, but that
I should be out alone in one of Sir Wilfrid's boats will
surprise nobody. It is well known that I go out fishing
at all hours.'

^ Well done, Mr. Derwent. * You have the brain of
a conspirator, or shall we say of a statesman? ' said John
Badcliffe, laughing. * I would we could reckon you on
our side, for we need men of your sort. Half of them
are feather-pates like young Enderby, who betrayed us
to you last month in my chambers.'

^ It is quite possible that Father Noel will have some
l)etter scheme,' said Michael. ' He is a wonderfid man
for seeing every move in the game. But, unless you

hear to the contrary, expect us to-morrow night at

eleven o'clock.'

*But, Michael,' said Audrey, who had listened in

silence to the arrangements, ^you are taking all the

risk on yourself. It is not fair. What is my Uncle

Eadcliffe to you? '
* He is just that — ^your uncle,' said Michael, quietly,

*and the brother of Sir Nicholas, to whose kindness I

owe much.'
John Eadcliffe seemed about to speak, but thought

better of it. As a man of the world he was ready to

doubt the possibility of anyone undertaking so risky a

piece of work when there was no hope of personal gain.

250 HOPE THE HERMIT

but however things turned out he could not see that in
this matter Michael coidd be the gainer. He was forced
to believe that the fellow acted really out of a chivalroiis
desire to help the girl he loved but could not wed. The
only thing he could gain was the brief satisfaction of
baffling the schemes of his rival, the TJnder-Sheriff, and
a man would scarcely run the risk of being thrown into
prison as aiding and abetting the Jacobites for such a
momentary triumph as that.

* Well, let us eat and drink! ' he said with a careless
laugh, * for to-morrow who can say what may befall us?
Mr. Derwent, here's to our next merry meetingi ' and
he drained a cup of the claret which old Duncan had
stowed away in Audrey's bag.

Then, having done their best to obliterate all traces
of his stay in the cave, they tramped on through the
woods above high Lowdore and Shepherd's Crag, until
they gained the tiny wooded glen hidden away by
Grange Fell, which, as children, they had called the
Happy Valley. At the southeastern part of this tiny
dale, not far from a brawling mountain stream, there
was a sheltered nook, where, long ago, they used to hide.
They had to come right down to the stream before they
could find it in the dim light; but Michael had always
been good at making landmarks, and he had only to
stand at a certain bend of the stream and face the east
to discover the exact nook he wanted.

* Here it is,' he cried, * up this bank to the bent crab-
tree; then there will be a thorn-bush just to your left,
and higher up still an old bent yew. Close beneath
that is a rock which will give you shelter from the rain;
but beware that you do not stir from the wood after
dawn, for you are near to Grange, and might come
across the dales-folk.'

John Eadcliffe promised to be most cautious, and they
left him as soon as possible, for, judging it unsafe to

HOPE THE HERMIT 251

risk passing the mill, they were forced to climb the fell
once more and tramp all round the way they had come
over the crags and through the woods towards Ashness
Farm. Nor could they afford to take the walk easily,
being in terror lest the dawn should overtake them. It
was then, as they hurried along in the drenching rain,
that Audrey began to realise what a man Michael had
become. Never once did he let her feel that it was
aught but the most natural thing in the world that they
two should be out together alone in that wild night,
nor did he again in any way allude to himself or his
own affairs. He talked of their plans for the rescue of
Mr. Eadcliffe; he even made himself talk a little of
Henry Brownrigg, a sort of loyalty to the absent lover
goading him on, though the words half choked him.

But Audrey, much as she looked up to him, could
not then realise all that it cost him to pilot her through
the dark wood, to feel her clinging to his arm, and to
take her up and carry her over Barrow Beck when, worn
out with fatigue, the rushing water made her turn giddy
as she stood on the slippery stones. Later on she knew,
but now she only felt a childlike gratitude to him for
proving so trusty a helper.

At last they had scrambled down to Derwentwater,
and, half dead with fatigue, she lay down once more in
the boat and let Michael wrap his cloak round her and
row her back to Lord's Island. Here Father Noel and
old Duncan sat up waiting for her, and, after hurried
explanations, she was glad to steal away to bed, leaving
Michael to settle the details of the escape with the old
priest.

'Did Mr. Eadcliffe tell you nothing?^ asked Father
Noel, looking eagerly and hopefully into the young
man^s grave face.

* There was nothing to tell,^ said Michael. ' I should
in any case have recognised him, but oddly enough this

252 HOPE THE HERMIT

very day I had a letter telling me that James Calverley
was but an assumed name^ and that a warrant was out
against Mr. Badcliffe.'

The poor old priest turned his head away in bitter
disappointment. Surely, he thought, John Kadcliffe
might have availed himself of what seemed a heaven-
sent opportunity of owning his son and heir.

* Mr. Eadeliffe is a selfish man/ he said. * Truly I
think he deserves to be trapped by the Under-Sheriff.
Why do you risk your safety for him? ^

*I fear I donH think much of him/ said Michael,
colouring, 'but it seems about the last chance I shall
ever have of serving Audrey.^

All at once, without any warning, his strength gave
way. The unspoken sympathy, the real comprehension
of Father Noel, proved too much for him. Exhausted
by the long struggle of the night, he buried his face to
his arms and began to sob.

* Poor boy/ said the old priest kindly, ' life has been
hard on you. Yet you are not the first who has had to
stand by in silence and see the life of his best beloved
wrecked by a mistaken marriage. Besides, there is
room for hope even now. Already the marriage has
been twice postponed. Who knows that it will ever
take place? ^

' The banns were asked on Sunday in St. Kentigem's/
said Michael, steadying his voice with an effort.

He was bitterly ashamed of having broken down, for
he had been reared among the dales-folk of Cumberland,
who bear the extremity of mental or bodily pain and
make no sign. But Lucy Carleton^s mother had been
of Welsh origin, and there was much of the emotional
Keltic nature in Michael.

* You see, sir/ he continued, * it does not need much
imagination to picture things as they are from Henry
Brownrigg^s point of view. He is moving heaven and

HOPE THE HERMIT 253

earth to get hold of the heir to the Goldrill estate^ Mr.
John Eadeliffe. When he has got him safely out of
the way Audrey will be the heiress^ and everything will
be at his disposal when once they are married.*

* Yes; no doubt that is his scheme/ said Father Noel,
and then he fell into a fit of musing. It was terrible
to him to know that the true heir was actually talking
to him yet that he was absolutely powerless to end the
great wrong which had been done to him. To break
the secrecy of the confessional was, of course, out of the
question, yet the sense of the horrible injustice which
he had silently to witness almost maddened him. It
was in vain that he reminded himself of the far worse
secrets which had often been confided to priests; the
niost hideous conspiracy, the most horrible murder,
^ould not just now seem to him so intolerable a load
^ this cowardice of John Eadeliffe and the prospect
of seeing Michael and Audrey, the two he had known
and loved ever since their childhood, sacrificed to a man
80 tyrannical and narrow as Henry Brownrigg.

As a Catholic, he would have felt it his duty in other
circumstances to urge upon Audrey the marriage with
Mr. Salkeld, knowing that he would probably bring her
over to his faith, but his kindly heart and his sense of
feirness inclined him more and more to see things from
Michaels side. If anything could make up to the boy
for all these years of ignominy and loneliness it woidd
oe such a marriage. But he sighed as he thought of it,
for indeed nothing seemed less likely to come about.

'Don^t give up hope, lad,' he said, laying a kindly
hand on Michael's shoulder. *We Borrowdale folk know
^ell enough that it's often the dark dawn that makes
the fair day; while with bright sunshine at six in the
morning you'll as likely as not have rain by noon. By
the bye, this downpour will be somewhat rough on Mr.
iJadcliffe.'

254 HOPE THE HERMIT

* Yes, but *twill fill the Derwent, and that is all in
our favour/ said MichaeL And therewith he fell \xi
discussing his idea for the escape, while Father Noel
groaned aloud to think that his knee made it impossible
for hiTn even to hobble down as far as the boat. He
longed sorely to be able to lend a hand, and, above aD,
he longed for a chance of once more urging John Bad-
cliflfe to own the truth. However, it was clearly impos-
sible for him to attempt anything of the sort; he could
only have been a hindrance and a danger to the others.

CHAPTER XXVI

* Well, Birkett/ said the Under-Sheri£E, as the man
appeared on Thursday morning at his room in Keswick,
*liave you traced the bogle yet? ^

* Noa, sir, but us thought us had 'en by the heels last
flight, nigh upon eleven o'clock. Howiver, it was, arter
all, nowt but Mr. Derwent, who had rowed across from
Herbert's Isle.'

^Mr. Derwent?' said the Under-Sheri£E, sitting up
^th an expectant look. ^ And pray what was he doing
^t that time of night? '

*Why, sir, he had a dark lantern wid 'en, and, sure
^ I stan' here, we was mortal flayte, thinkin' him to be
^he bogle. But he just laughed and called out to
■Mounsey that he was gettin' moths off the tree-trunks.
And, Lor' bless you, sir, he verily was doin' it and
^'puttin' 'em in boxes in a daft fashion, as though the
plaguy beasts was worth money. You know, sir, there
still is folk that say he is a changelin' and no' a'together
canny. Dickon over at Herbert's Isle, he always said
^hen he first set eyes on him he could hardly bring
himself to touch the crittur for fear it should bewitch
him.'

'Pooh! there's nothing uncanny about him,' said the
lender-Sheriff; ^and as to being daft, why, man, his
^^rains are only too sharp. Depend upon it, he was up
^0 no good last night. He trapped you as well as the
^oths. They were just a blind. Look you, Birkett,
hiirry off to the best place for viewing the whole of

256 HOPE THE HERMIT

Cerwentwater. Luckily it is clear enough after the
rain. When you see a boat leaving Herbert's Isle,
watch the direction it takes, and when Mr. Derwent
comes ashore, just quietly follow him, taking care that
he does not see that you are dogging his steps. Bring
me word later on in the day as to his movements.'

^ Now,' he exclaimed to himself as his messenger
withdrew, ^ I have at last got the clue I wanted. And
to think Michael Derwent is embroiled as well! That
is a stroke of luck I had not looked for. Depend upon
it, he has been hand and glove with that traitor John
Radcliffe all these months in London. I see it all now!
That was the meaning of his guarded answer the other
day when he spoke of the state of the country. The
fellow would easily deceive Sir Wilfrid Lawson, who is
too good-natured and too much of a joker to suspect
sinister designs in those he has to deal with. I shouldn't
wonder if the fellow is all the time a Papist, though he
does put in an appearance still at Crosthwaite Church.
He would be ready enough to change his views to curry
favour with Father Noel and Sir Nicholas, and so pro-
mote his designs upon Audrey. Well, thank heaven, I
have netted him now, or very nearly! And next month
we shall be safely married.'

He rubbed his hands with satisfaction. It became
more and more clear to him that the bogle was none
other than John Eadcliffe, the Jacobite, and Michael
doubtless had been employed by Sir Nicholas to carry
food to the fugitive in his hiding-place. No one would
be better fitted for such a task, since he knew every inch
of the country around.

Meanwhile Birkett waited the whole morning, and
no boat put off from St. Herbert's Isle. At length, in
the afternoon, when, what with the heat of the sun and
his wakeful night, sleep had almost overpowered him,
he descried a boat rowing slowly northward. Hasten-

HOPE THE HERMIT 257

ing down from the little eminence he had chosen for
his watch-tower, he made his way to the point towards
which the boat was steering, and was just near enough
to see Michael mooring it in a bend of the river Der-
went, a little to the northwest of the place where the
Greta flows into it. Having secured the boat, Michael
wandered off towards some trees at a little distance,
where he went through a series of operations which
utterly mystified his unknown watcher. He seemed to
be smearing the tree-trunks with something sticky, and
the sight made the superstitious Birkett shiver, for
this distinctly savoured of the black art. Could the
Borrowdale foundling be a wizard? Cautiously creep-
ing after him, Birkett examined the mysterious tree-
tnmks and scratched his head with an air of hopeless
bewilderment. Altogether he counted twelve trees
bearing the mystic mark. Had he dared to think this
curious and uncanny rite was anything so simple, he
vould have said that the trees had been just daubed
with treacle or sugar. His imagination rose to such a
height, however, that he was convinced the letter ^w*
'was traced upon one tree, and, full of glee at this great
and brilliant discovery, he lost no time in following
Michael at a discreet distance. Michael, having some
spare time on his hands, crossed the fields slowly in the
lot July sun and made his way to Hye Hill, to visit his
old Quaker friend. As for Birkett, he lay in a shady
nook on the grass not far off, and waited for a couple of
hours, then tracked his man to a house in the Market
Square, and returned to his master with a glowing ac-
count of his discovery.

*Mr. Derwent be now in the house of old Snoggles,

the fiddler,^ he said, ^ where I reckon he is safe to stay

for some time. Do you think, sir, the letter stands for

^^ waichtd^^ and is to warn the bogle? ^

'Maybe,* said Henry, with a smile. *But, anyhow,

17

258 HOPE THE HERMIT

Matt^ go on with your watching. I think we shall trap
the bogle at last^ and I myself shall join to-night in the
hunt. Go now and have a tankard of ale at the TFoo^
^^acky but since the weather is hot, see that you sit on
the bench outside the inn and keep an eye on Zinogle's
door. Then, when Mr. Derwent comes out, track him
once more, and be back here again by nine o^clock to
tell me of his movements.*

Matt, mystified, but much elated by his success and
the praise of the Under-Sheriff, bowed himself out, and
Henry Brownrigg began to consider what other men
beside Birkett and the constable he had better take
with him for the evening's hunt. Was it possible that
the letter traced on the tree stood for Whitehaven or
Workington ? And was the boat expressly moored
there for John Eadclifle's use after dark?

Meanwhile Michael was leaning back in Zinogle's
high-backed chair, forgetting his anxiety for a while
as his old friend played the airs he most loved on his
fiddle. He had come in tired and despondent, but it
was impossible to listen long to Zinogle's cheerful music
without becoming imbued with hope. And, as the old
man played the melody known as Lady Frances NevilFs
Delight, there floated back to Michael's mind the re-
membrance of Father NoeFs words about the dark dawn
bringing the fair day and the duty of eternal hope.
Hope, too, was the idea which, from his childhood, the
old fiddler had tried to imbue him with. Was he al-
ways to go on hoping, he wondered, and reflected, with
a rueful smile, that, after all, hope was a diet upon
which a man was apt to grow lean. Well, at least there
was something to be done for Audrey that night. He
was the one man in the world who could and would
protect her now, and there was something stimulating
in the thought that even Henry Brownrigg could not
rob him of that privilege.

\

HOPE THE HERMIT 259

'Bravo, Zinogle! ^ he said, as the old man laid down
his fiddle at last, ' you always drive the devil out of me
vith your music. Promise me this, old friend, if ever
I should be in trouble, don't forget me, but come to me
^th your fiddle under your arm; then, even with death
staring me in the face, I should get some comfort and
pleasure/

'Trouble!' said the German lightly. 'Never think
of it beforehand, boy. If it comes, why, you can be
trusted to bear it like a man; but till then hope's your
mainstay. And as for coming to you, I should like to
see anything that would hinder me! For, as you very
T^ell know, in this mad, topsy-turvy world you and my
pipe and my fiddle are the only friends left me.'

And, taking up the violin once more, he played right
cheerfully the old tune of ' Love will find out a way.*

When that was ended, Michael, bidding his godfather
farewell, left the house and the little town and wan-
iered on to Castle Hill. The sun had just set, and
Skiddaw and Latrigg were bathed in an unearthly radi-
ince more beautiful than the colours of the opal. He
stood for many minutes looking at that wonderful view,
Bo familiar and so dear to him. There were the fells over
which he and Audrey had climbed only a few hours
before; there was the dear old Castle Crag, with its wil-
derness of trees guarding the entrance to Borrowdale,
and in the background his beloved Glaramara, with its
Tugged heights all roseate in the evening glow, while far
away, yet clearly to be seen, were Great End and Scaw-
fell Pike, recalling many a day of adventure with Father
Noel for his companion. Dearer than all, there was
Derwentwater itself, lying like a silver shield down be-
fore him, with Lord's Island and the old house, and a
Jight already in one of the windows, which shone like
4 pale primrose in contrast with the ruddy gold and
crimson of the sunset.

96o HOPE THE HERMIT

He looked down at it sadly, thinking how soon
Audrey would have left it for ever — left it for that very
doubtful happiness of being mistress of Millbeek Hall.
And yet they still preached hope to him! Both Father
Noel and old Zinogle always harped on that one string.
The utmost, as it seemed, that he could now hope for
was to be some protection to her on this eventful night;
beyond that night no ray shone to lighten his darkness.
He glanced with a sigh across the still water to the
place where he knew his boat was moored, and then out
beyond to the gleam of mellow light which showed
where Bassenthwaite lay. By the time he reached that
place in the early hours of the night, he and John Ead-
cliffe would be alone, and Audrey would be safely once
more on the island.

With sad eyes he turned away and went down the
hill, until, finding a fallen tree-trunk which had been
well baked by the long summer day^s sunshine, he
stretched himself on it and tried to spend the rest of
his waiting-time in sleep. What were those words abont
hope in the Two Gentlemen of Verona? Just as his
eyelids grew heavy they darted back into his mind:

* Hope is a lover's staff I Walk hence with that,
And manage it against despairing thoughts.'

And it was just about that time that Matt Birkett
returned to the Under-Sheriff with the news that Mr.
Derwent had stood for some time on the top of Castle
Hill, as though watching for something, and that he
now lay down at the foot of the hill, to all appearance
asleep.

^ Go and sup with all speed at the WoolpacJc/ said
Henry Brownrigg, ^ and be back here in half an hour.
Our bogle-hunt must begin.^

CHAPTER XXVII

When Michael awoke it was quite dusk. The sleep
lad greatly refreshed him, and, as he strode across the
[elds to Stable Hills Fann, his spirits rose and he felt
ager for the night's adventure. Keeping a little to
he south of the boathouse, he waited in the place that
lad been agreed upon until he saw, in the fast-deepen-
ng gloom, the light in the window above the great
loor, extinguished. It had been kindled in the Lord's
'sland house early in the evening as a sign that all was
veil and that Audrey would come as arranged, and now
hat it was out, he knew that she must be getting into
he boat, and that in a few minuses she would be with
lim. His heart throbbed fast when, out of the gloom,
le saw the outline of the dark hull approaching, and
ieard the sound of her muffled oars close by. In an-
other moment she was at the shore, and, leaping into
ie boat, he pushed off again, taking the second pair
)f oars that had been provided and giving her a whis-
)ered greeting.

^ The other boat is all right? ' she inquired.

^Yes, safely moored near Portinscale, and stowed
way in it I have put some old clothes that Dickon was
keeping for a scarecrow, and a ragged smock which
should make any king look like a clown.'

Audrey laughed beneath her breath, and they rowed
teadily on, taking care to give the mill of Lowdore as
vide a berth as might be, lest Mounsey should descry
hem.

26a HOPE THE HERMIT

Now, to find the entrance to the Derwent at the south
end of Derwentwater is no easy matter even by day-
light, for the marshy ground, with its wilderness of
reeds, its narrow channels, which often prove mere cvk-
de-sdc, and its absence of landmarks, is bewildering.
But by night the task is hard indeed, and, well as
Michael knew the country, he was sorely baffled in the
midnight gloom. At last, however, they struck the
right channel, and, after that, every bend being familiar
to them both, they got on easily enough, mooring the
boat on the opposite side of the river to Manesty meads,
and then setting off across the wet grass towards the
entrance to the Happy Valley.

The night was clear and the stars were shining
brightly, so that they could plainly distinguish the out-
lines of the craggy hills which surrounded it, and,
guided by the stream, they walked on swiftly, Audrey
springing lightly over the boggy ground in the raiment
of the ghost and thankful not to have heavy skirts trail-
ing after her in the darkness.

^ Ah, Mic! * she exclaimed, as he helped her over a bit
of ground that had become a swamp since the heavy
rain, ^ two is better than one. I should have been in a
panic of terror many a time this night had it not been
for you.*

^ Thank God I am here, then!* said Michael. ^It
makes me shudder even now to think how nearly Matt
Birkett caught you the other night.*

^ Ah! and it was not only of human beings I was in
terror,' said Audrey; ^ I kept on thinking how it would
be if the mock bogle and the real bogle were to come
face to face.*

He laughed softly at this idea, and then they both
started violently, for a screech-owl flew past them with
its melancholy, foreboding cry.

^Well, if we meet nothing more dangerous than

HOPE THE HERMIT 263

3€t«eech-owlB and bogles we shall carry through our
aight^s work easily enough/ said Michael^ cheerfully.
DonH you think you might give the call now? ^

They paused by the stream, while her clear, yet soft
3ry sounded out into the night, and was echoed by John
Radcliffe in his shelter under the old yew tree. He
3ame striding down the hill, and, leaping the stream,
^ve them an eager greeting.

' Is all well? ^ he inquired.

' Yes, your boat awaits you,* they replied.

' That^s good hearing,* he said cheerfully. ^ I should
have rotted had I been mowed up under that old tree
any longer. Talk about King Charles in the oak, he
il^as lapped in luxury compared with me! And, when
at last the deluge ended, I didn't dare come out of that
apology for an ark, since a boy saw fit to feed his flock of
sheep at the other end of the valley. Well, little ghost,
how many rustics have you scared on the way here? *

*We have not seen a soul,* said Audrey, blithely.
^ Here, sir, is a packet of money which my grandfather
sends you with his best wishes for your safe journeying
to France.*

^That*s good of him,* said John Eadclijfife. ^Mr.
Derwent, did you remember the disguise? *

^ Yes, sir,* said Michael; ^ I have robbed a scarecrow
in your behalf.*

This greatly tickled the Jacobite*s fancy, and they
had some difficulty in making him hush his laughter
as they came down once more to the winding river and
got into the boat.

^Give me the oars,* he said, 'and Audrey, do you
steer. I shall be glad to stretch my limbs once more.*

And then silence fell on the party, while swiftly, with
the current in their favour, they rowed down to the
refedy entrance to Derwentwater and out on to the broad
expanse. So still was the night that Audrey could see

364 HOPE THE HERMIT

the stars reflected in the water as in a mirror, while the
gloomy heights of Maiden-moor and Catbells loomed
darkly upon the western shore. The only sign that
any other human beings besides themselves existed in
the neighbourhood lay in the twinkling rushlight in
the children's room on St. Herbert's Isle and the light
in her grandfather's bedchamber on Lord's Island.

The two men had kept on their dark coats for fear
their white shirt-sleeves should betray them to any
chance watcher, but Michael, heated with rowing, had
thrown off his hat, so that the night breeze gently blew
back the long, dark hair of his peruke. She fancied
that his face gleamed curiously white in the dim star-
light, and once, when a sudden flicker of summer Hght-
ning illuminated everything for a minute, she saw that
there were lines of pain round his lips and in his eyes a
look which made her think of the eyes of a wounded
stag she had once seen in Borrowdale. That was years
ago, when Michael had flrst gone to Cambridge, and she
remembered that it was her lover who had been out
deer-stalking and that the wounded stag had fallen a
victim to his gun. She shivered a little. Was it be-
cause the parting was so near at hand that he bore that
look?

There was another quiver of sheet-lightning ; this
time he stopped rowing for a minute, glanced round to
see the opening to the Derwent, and whispered to her
to steer to the left. Against the dancing light Skiddaw
and Latrigg rose majestically, while below, in silvery
brightness, the Greta flowed into the Derwent, and all
the reeds and rushes along the banks shimmered and
sparkled like the spears of a great army.

^ The current is strong; keep well to the left, close to
the rushes,' said Michael. ^ Now we are almost there;
I moored her to that willow round the next bend. Ship
your oars, sir,' he added, glancing back at the Jacobite.

HOPE THE HERMIT 965

John Badcliffe silently obeyed. Audrey, with both
ands on the tiller, kept her eyes fixed on the willow
•ee, and already they had caught sight of the moored
oat, when suddenly there was a blaze of light from a
tntem held by someone half hidden by the reeds;
rong hands clutched their boat and made it fast, while,
ith an effort which nearly capsized them, John Rad-
iffe was dragged ashore by three men, who flung them-
jlves upon him. The bearer of the lantern stept for-
ard and touched him on the shoulder.

^ In the King's name! ' he said, and Audrey, shrink-
ig down into her place in the stem, knew that it was
er lover.

She felt a hand on hers and, lifting her face, saw
[ichael stooping over her.

^ Quick,* he whispered, almost lifting her onto the
eat he had quitted. ^Take the oars and row home,
ril cut the rope while they are getting me ashore.*

She was like one stunned, and it was only under his
ompulsion that she obeyed, while he, with ears sharp-
ned by anxiety, was listening to the confused babel of
oices.

^ There be two other gentlemen in the boat, sir,* cried
iirkett. ^ Be us to mak' *em all prisoner? *

Henry Brownrigg turned, having been too much oc-
cupied in seeing the constable bind John Eadcliffe's
irms to his sides to heed anything else.

'To be sure, Birkett,* he said. 'So, Mr. Derwent,
fou have changed your views! Drag him out, men.
iVhafs the good of resisting, gentlemen; we are five of
18 here and are bound to take you? *

As he spoke he hung the lantern on a branch of the
rtllow and stept closer to the boat, from the bows of
^hich Michael was struggling with his would-be captors
H the bank.

He had unsheathed his knife and was desperately

366 HOPE THE HERMIT

sawing at the cord with which the men had secured the
prow. Birkett, only, divined what he was about, and
gripped his arm like a vise, whereupon Michael shifted
his knife to the other hand, gave the fellow a touch
with the point, which made him start back for a mo-
ment, and then in triumph severed the rope.

* Pull off ! ^ he cried to Audrey, and at the same mo-
ment he took his assailants utterly by surprise by yield-
ing and leaping on shore so suddenly that he sent three
of them sprawling onto the ground.

But Henry Brownrigg was not to be so easily baffled;
he gripped fast hold of the boat before the rower had
had time to get fairly off.

' Hold there! * he cried. ^ You donH escape us now,
my man! Get up, you fellows, and make that other
gentleman prisoner.'

He broke off, for Michael put a hand on his shoulder
and said in a tone which could not reach the others:

^ Sir, do you not see that it is Mr. Eadcliffe's niece in
disguise? For God's sake, nay, for her sake and yonr
own, let her row home and say no more.'

For a minute the XJnder-Sheriff was struck dumh;
then a look of fury crossed his face; he ground his teeth
with rage.

* Youdale and Birkett, come and bind this villain be-
fore he does any more mischief,' he exclaimed, and the
men stepped forward, glad enough to pinion one who
had given them so much trouble.

^ Tighter! ' cried the XJnder-Sheriff, pleased to see his
enemy wince a little as the cord cut into his wrists.

Just then there came a sound like a stifled sob from
the river.

* Henry, he only came to protect me! ' cried Audrey,
pleadingly, and at the piteous, girlish voice the con-
stable and his helpers started in amaze and stared
stupidly at the figure in the boat.

HOPE THE HERMIT 267

* Oh, I understand it all now, madam; you needn't
explain/ said Henry Brownrigg, scathingly. * My good
men, this lady was to have been wedded to me next
month, but she prefers masquerading at midnight in
men^s attire. Be good enough to help her from the
boat. 'Tis a pity that the spectators are not more
numerous and that our theatre is indifferently lighted,'
and with a coarse jest he turned mercilessly towards the
shrinking figure of his fiancee.

All this time Michael had stood by in silence, mad-
dened by the sense of his helplessness, but that last
ribald speech was too much for his powers of endurance.
With a dexterous movement of the head, he suddenly
jerked the lantern oflE the branch of the willow, and
then, before the Under-Sheriff or his men could rescue
it from the groimd, gave it a kick which sent it spinning
through the air, to splash into the middle of the river
and sink to the bottom.

The men were just dragging Audrey ashore, when the
little group found themselves in sudden darkness.
John Eadclifle laughed till the tears ran down his
cheeks. But the Under-Sheriff, understanding the
chivalrous thought of his rival, only hated him the
more, and, with a savage determination not to be
baulked, called upon Youdale to get out the tinder-
box.

* There is a gorse-bush a few paces off; set it alight,'
he said, peremptorily, and the men obeyed, while the
others brought the three prisoners forward, not a little
curious to see more plainly how the plotters would look.

In truth it was a strange scene; it appealed even to
such a case-hardened man of the world as John Ead-
cliffe. There they stood, with the dark outline of
Causey Pike and Bowling End showing out clearly for
background, while every now and then the Newlands
Valley would be bathed in the dazzling radiance of the

268 HOPE THE HERMIT

summer lightning. The flaming gorse-bnsh east a
strong light upon Miehael and Audrey, but, whereas in
the boat she had been merely a terrified girl, she had
now suddenly developed into a woman, and stood there
with a patient dignity which partly hid the bitter pain
she was suffering. John Eadcliffe saw that Michael
was less successful in concealing the indignation that
raged within him, and strange thoughts passed through
the elder man's mind as he watched that curiously
familiar face with its Welsh outlines, its reproachful
hazel eyes. As for the north-countrjrmen, they looked
uncomfortable and ill at ease, while the Under-Sheriff,
his tall, portly figure and handsome features showing to
great advantage in the lurid light, might have stood for
an impersonation of Milton^s Archfiend, so full of pride
and malice did he appear.

' Did you know that there was a warrant out against
Mr. John Eadcliffe? ' he demanded of Michael.

* Yes, I learnt it yesterday.^

^How?^

'It was casually mentioned in a letter I had from
London.*

'Did the letter say that Mr. Eadcliffe was in this
part of the country? *

' No, I learnt that later on.* >

'Who from?* a

' I was out mothing that night, as Mounsey and Bir- r
kett will have told you; later on I came across the Bor- b
rowdale Bogle, and discovered that it was Mistress Bad- 5
cliffe carrying food to her uncle.*

Henry Brownrigg turned upon Audrey at that, i
speaking in the clear, cutting tone which in itself seems 1
an insult.

' I begin to understand, madam,* he said. ' You have
deceived me for several days past, and, not content with
that, you elected to spend last night in the company of

HOPE THE HERMIT 369

the Borrowdale bastardy though knowing quite well that

he is my hated rival, a man I ^

He broke off, for John Badeliffe had stepped forward.

* Sir/ said the Jacobite, in a cool, mocking voice, * it
really distresses me to see you labouring so unneces-
sarily imder a mistake. Also I must insist on your
withdrawing the epithet you used. Michael is my son
by my first marriage, and you will hardly say that
he was doing an outrageous thing in protecting his
cousin. Mistress Eadcliffe, in her walk to my hiding-
place.'

If a thimderbolt had fallen at their feet the little
group could hardly have been more startled; as for
Michael, he stood like a man in a dream. Gould it
really be that at last he had found the truth he had so
long sought? And was this Jacobite, to whom from
the very first he had felt drawn, the father he had learnt
to detest for the wrong done him as an infant and
for the way in which his mother had been treated?
Then he remembered how the tardy acknowledgement
had been made to save Audrey's reputation, and he
thought no more of past wrongs, but only of present
gratitude.

He crossed over towards Henry Brownrigg, who stood
petrified with astonishment, his face dark with conflict-
ing emotions. *Mr. Brownrigg,' said Michael, *I am
ready of course to take the responsibility of having
helped my father to escape, but now that you imder-
stand all, let your betrothed row back to Lord's Island.'

* Ha! betrothed did you say? ' said the Under-Sheriff,
with a mocking laugh. ^ Nay, I call you all to witness
that I return my troth to this audacious masquerader.
The doublet and hose are doubtless very becoming, but
for my future wife I prefer the petticoat. If Mistress
Eadcliffe apes the ways of men she must be treated as
a man. You, sir, will, I imderstand, be heir to the

270 HOPE THE HERMIT

estate of Ooldrill in Patterdale when your Jacobite
father is hung^ but as things stand you seem likely to
spend your days in gaol, so the inheritance will not ayail
you much. I am under an obligation to you, however,
for that estate would have been my sole inducement to
overlook the midnight ramblings of our dainty cavalier
yonder and still to wed her/

^ You vile coward! ^ cried Michael, his eyes blazing
with anger. ^How dare you insult my cousin? The
moment I am free I will call you to account for it.*

Henry bowed ironically.

^ I accept your challenge with the greatest pleasure/
he said. ^ Now, men, march these Jacobite plotters
back to Keswick, and since there is no more cord we
must e'en let the Borrowdale Bogle go unbound. Bir-
kett, you have been ghost-stalking since Saturday. I
commend her to your keeping. Have a care, man, that
she doesn't slip through your fingers.'

Michael glanced for one moment into the face of the
woman he loved. Since that appeal to Henry from the
boat she had not uttered a word; her old playfelWs
pain prompted that stifled cry, but her own suffering
seemed to have half -paralysed her. She bore the look
of stony despair which one sees at times in the face of
the bereaved, for in truth those words which Henry
Brownrigg had spoken, that exhibition of merciless,
brutal cruelty, had shattered into a thousand fragments
the image of her lover which she had so long cherished.
The man she had admired — ^yes, and loved with her
whole heart — was absolutely dead; she saw him now as
he really was, and the blank desolation of her heart was
indescribable.

She longed to lie down and die, but there was the
miserable necessity of tramping the weary way to Kes-
wick. By the time they had crossed the dewy fields,
however, and had reached the lane leading from Cros-

HOPE THE HERMIT 271

thwaite Church to the little market town^ her steps had
begun to falter; it seemed as if she could go no further.
Michael^ who walked just behind her^ lagged a little
and spoke beneath his breath to the constable.

^ Greenhow, you are a good-hearted fellow/ he said.
* Tell the Under-SheriflE that Mistress Eadclifife is faint;
she might rest at Hye Hill. See, they have a light yet
burning.*

But the Under-Sheriff was not in a compliant mood.

^ No favouritism/ he said shortly. ^ She will spend
the night in the lock-up; but if she is faint, why, let her
rest a minute in the porch yonder. I see the Quaker
has a bench on each side.*

By this time Audrey felt as if her last hour had come;
each time Henry spoke a quiver of pain shot through
her heart; it was as though the ghost of dead love was
trying to struggle back to life. Blind, giddy, gasping
for breath, she let the constable put her down on the
hench, while, for a moment, she must have drifted quite
^way into unconsciousness. When she came to herself,
she found that someone had opened the door of the
house and that light was streaming upon the little group
in the porch; she could see that Michael, his arms still
tound with cruel tightness to his sides, stepped eagerly
forward.

^ Sir,* he said, ^ I claim your help for our kinswoman,
Audrey EadcliflEe; she is faint with fatigue.*

The old Quaker, ignoring the cavalier costume, per-
haps scarcely noticing it, came quickly towards the pros-
tj^te figure and laid his hand on the long, shining curls
that half hid the face.

^Friend Audrey/ he said, ^welcome to my house 1
Come in and rest.*

^Nay, Mr. Quaker,* said Henry Brownrigg, with a
harsh laugh, ^your fair kinswoman must lie to-night
in the lock-up. She hath mixed herself up with a

272 HOPE THE HERMIT

treasonable Popish plot that even you would not ap- L
prove of/ /3

Audrey caught at her old kinsman^s hand, gripping ^
it much as Michael had done in that paroxysm of pain 1, £
when he had first met him. The old Quaker knew very
well what such an act meant, for in his time he had
comforted many.

^ There is no disgrace in a gaol, Audrey,' he said
quietly. ^ Yet I am right glad to see thee ere thou dost
go to it. Wait awhile, for my wife is suffering from
the ague, and I have on the fire a posset keeping hot for
her. Thou shalt drink some of it, and it will hearten
thee for the rest of thy walk.*

His tone soothed her, and it was perhaps quite as
much the kindly tenderness of his manner as the vir-
tues of the sack posset which restored her strength.
Her blank, desolate world, which had been wrecked by
Henry Brownrigg, began to put forth little shoots of
life. Did not this old kinsman, though so little known
to her, treat her with the loving thoughtfulness of a
father? Into her frozen heart there stole a gratitude i
which she could never have put into words. And she J
grew strong to face the hard future as she remembered
how, at the worst, her own kinsfolk had stood by her—
how indeed their one thought had been to shelter and
spare her.

In a few minutes they had looked their last on the
old Quaker and were marching on into Keswick, butj
the thought of that peaceful face, with its quiet, kindly
eyes, lingered with Michael and Audrey like a good
angel. How he had suffered in the past! and how well
he must have suffered to come through it all with such
a look!

And so it came abolit that Henry Brownrigg, who
had expected passionate protestations and entreatiefl
that at least Audrey might be spared the ignominy of

\

HOPE THE HERMIT 273

spending the night in the lock-up, was entirely baulked,
for the three prisoners calmly allowed themselves to be
led in by Birkett and Greenhow, nor did they address
a single word to him. He walked away to his quarters
at the Royal Oak in high dudgeon.
18

CHAPTER XXVIII

When Greenhow had lighted his lantern the prison-
ers saw that the lock-up was a bare^ flagged place about
nine feet square. It had been cleaned out on Monday,
after the removal of a refractory prisoner to Cocker*
mouth, and it seemed to be absolutely without furni-
ture. The constable, however, said he would fetch
some straw, and speedily returned with a big bundle of
it under one arm and a pitcher of water in the other.

'Can^t you take off these cords?' said John Bad-
cliflEe.

' I dursn't do it, sir/ said Greenhow. ' The TJnder-
SheriflE says they are to be left till youVe been before
the magistrate in the morning.*

However, the fellow did what he could to make their
imprisonment tolerable to them, and finally left them
with a friendly ^ Good-night,* locking and bolting the
door after him, and retreating to his own home with
echoing steps down the silent street.

There was an unglazed window high up in the north
wall, and between the iron bars the faint, grey light of
early dawn was beginning to steal. A clock in Sir Joseph
BaiJcs* house just opposite struck two.

' Mic,* said Audrey, ^ let me bathe your wrists for you;
they are all bleeding.*

'Yes, that's a happy thought,* said John Badcliffe.
' Those brutes have cut into the flesh.*

To tell the truth, Michael would have endured much
severer pain for the bliss of feeling those soft, womanly

HOPE THE HERMIT 275

hands tending him. He was startled, however, when
Audrey gave a sad little laugh.

' Why, how foolish I am! ^ she said, beginning quietly
to undo the tight knots. ' I will set you free and have
the cords on again before Greenhow comes in the
morning.^

Then Uncle Radcliffe chuckled softly to himself, like
a man well pleased.

^ Did I not tell you that you had the best wits of us
all? ' he said. ^ I^m hanged if the thought of your un-
loosing us ever crossed my mind.*

Before long she had freed them both. Michael then
began to heap the straw together for her in the further
comer and to spread his coat for her.

^You will rest, cousin,* he said, gently drawing
her towards the bed he had prepared. ^As for me,
there is much that I would fain talk over with my
father.*

And stooping to kiss her hand, with a reverence
which went straight to the heart Henry Brownrigg had
outraged, he turned away.

As for Audrey, with her face turned to the wall and
her cousin*s coat wrapped about her, she for the first
time broke down utterly, and, lying there in the semi-
darkness, wept till she could weep no more.

Meanwhile the two men sat at the further end of the
cell deep in conversation.

^Many a time in London,* said John Eadcliffe, ^I
was minded to own you, for, from the first day I met
you at Whitehall, I liked you, boy. But then there was
the accursed difference in our religion and our politics.
I did my utmost to bring you round to the true church
and to make a Jacobite of you, but it was of no use.
Then, too, you were thirsting for revenge and were
doing your utmost to find out your unknown father; I
thought there would be difficulties and put off the con-

276 HOPE THE HERMIT

fession^ but I always intended to acknowledge yon
sooner or later/

* Why did yon desert my mother? * asked Michael, his
eyes lighting np angrily.

^ I never did desert her/ said John Eadcliff e. ^ You
might justly reproach me with having abandoned you
to your fate, but your mother I never did desert/

^ They told me at Watendlath that you left her in the
time of her greatest need/

^ Nothing of the sort/ said John Kadcliffe. ^ I was
obliged to go on to Lord's Island, and it was impossible
to take her with me, since no one knew of the marriage.
We had come over from Patterdale, where I had been
to look after the Goldrill estate for Sir Nicholas.
Knowing that Watendlath was a quiet place where I
could safely leave her, I rode on to Derwentwater, and
not long after my arrival my nephew Marmaduke^s post-
humous child was bom and proved to be a girl. Then
I knew that I was next heir to the Goldrill estate. As
soon as was possible I went with young Vane to Wa-
tendlath to ask how matters were with my wife. What
happened you know. She was already dead. Had she
lived, your life might have been very different. But she
was gone, leaving me only a puny babe, whose existence
bid fair to thwart all my plans.*

' What plans? * said Michael.

^The lady I shortly afterwards married,' said John
Eadcliffe, 'had always coveted the Goldrill estate. I
knew that she would accept my suit now that I was heir,
but it was out of the question that I should confess my
secret marriage with your mother and tell the Lady
Isabella that no child of hers could inherit the estate.
In order to make my marriage with this lady possihle
— she had great influence at court, and would, I thought,
ensure my success in life — I made up my mind to drown
you. But when it came to the point, and I was going

HOPE THE HERMIT 277

cast you into the Derwent, I coxddnH do it. So I
list left you there on the bank^ hoping that someone
rould take pity on you. ^Twas a dastardly thing to do,
nd Father Noel has for years tried to make me ac-
nowledge you, but somehow the right time never came,
nd it grew harder as the years went on. I hope you
ronH bear malice.^

There was a silence in the cell.
'Why don^t you speak, Michael?^ urged his father,
rying in vain in the dim light to read his son^s face.

1 have gained nothing by all these schemes, and now,
s likely as not, shall be sent to the gallows. Come, say
ou forgive me.'

But Michael thought of the horrible slur on his birth,
nder which his whole life had been past. And to for-
ive was hard. Nor was his father's easy-going, selfish
lature one that called out the better side of those who
Lad to do with him. In the dead silence of the lock-up
here was no sound to be heard but Audrey's regular
)reathing, for at last she slept.

Presently she gave a little sob in her sleep, and
Vlichael remembered how bitterly she had suffered that
aight. He turned back to his father.

' I forgive you, sir,' he said quietly, ' because to-night
you acknowledged me in time to shield Audrey. I for-
give you gladly, for you have baulked the Under-
Sheriff.'

^ If only the maid could realise it, she is well quit of
that great, hectoring bully,' said John Kadcliffe. * By
the powers! if you and I had not been bound he should
^ot have escaped scot-free; we would have ducked him
111 the river and cooled his ribald tongue. We would
have sent him spinning through the air after his lan-
tern. Well, the marriage will never come off now, for
't was the estate he hankered after, and that will be
Tours. By the bye, he will owe you a double grudge.

278 HOPE THE HERMIT

and will doubtless do his best to keep yon in gaol. But
I scarcely think Audrey would have him after his con-
duct to-night, even if he did succeed in getting us both
out of the world/

'He will hardly be able to manage that/ said
Michael.

'Not in your case, unless he distorts things very
greatly. But I suspect ^twill be a hanging matter for
me,^ said John Eadclifte coolly. ' You must tell Father
Noel that I have acknowledged you, and the best solu-
tion of the difficulty would be for you to wed Audrey.'

The hot blood rushed to MichaeFs face.

' She does not care for me,^ he said in a low voice.
' She loved the Under-SheriflE.'

'Very possibly,^ said John Eadclifife. 'That is to
say she loved his fine person, and the pretty picture of
the man^s noble character which she drew in her own
mind. That picture is gone now, and in its place there
remains only the grim reality of a low-minded, coarse,
brutal tyrant, who taunted and insulted her. He has
no one but himself to thank; he deliberately killed her
love for him. Depend upon it, the time will come when
she will learn to care for the fellow who kicked the
lantern into the river.^

And it was then that there flashed back into Michael's
mind the words that Zinogle had spoken only a few
hours before about hope.

When Audrey woke, the sun had long ago risen and
she could hear voices in the little Market Square. She
looked round in a bewildered way, puzzled for a moment
not to see the wainscotted walls of her bedroom and the
picture of her mother, generally the first thing upon
which her eyes rested upon waking. Instead, the light
was streaming through heavy iron bars, and at the other
side of the room sat Uncle Eadclifte with his back
against the wall and his mouth wide open, snoring

\

HOPE THE HERMIT 279

loudly, while, stretched uneasily upon the flagstones,
Michael lay, with his head pillowed on his arm, fast
asleep.

Then it all came back to her again, and with a moan
of pain she hid her face from the light. After all she
had endured the last few days, all the anxiety and sus-
pense, the misery of a divided duty, here was her great-
uncle in prison and in danger of his life, while her own
life had been utterly wrecked, and the lover she had
fondly deemed a tower of strength had proved a mere
broken reed. Thinking over it all, she remembered
now his strange manner to Michael when, in the pre-
vious autumn, he had found them looking together at
Lucy Carleton^s book. She remembered, too, how a
faint misgiving had stirred in her mind when he came
to Lord^s Island a week ago and asked if they had vis-
itors. It was only too clear now that she and her mother
had been utterly deceived in him, and that the men,
who one and all seemed to disapprove of the proposed
marriage, had been right. Well, he had gone for ever
out of her life — the man to whom she had for more than
a year been betrothed might be said never to have had
any real existence. It was there that the sting lay.

Suddenly she remembered that Greenhow would be
returning ere long to attend to his prisoners, and she
started up and stole across to rouse her uncle.

^ Let me bind your arms, sir,^ she said, * before Green-
how comes, or you may get into trouble.'

^ True,' said John EadcliflEe, yawning and rubbing his
eyes as he stood up. ^ I see my son sleeps stiU. Hark
you, Audrey, I am sorry enough to have exposed you to
80 much suffering and insult at the hands of Mr. Brown-
Hgg, but believe me, niece, you will one day thank me
for opening your eyes. It may be that I shall not see
you again alone; the feeling in the country is sure to
Inin very strongly for a time against all Jacobites, and

28o HOPE THE HERMIT

I don't expect to cheat the gallows. Later on, when
you have had time to recover the shock of last night,
try to remember that mj son has loved yon all his life.
I have dealt hardly by him, God knows! Try to do
what you may to make the rest of his life more
endurable.*

Audrey dropped her head, and her eyes swam with
tears.

^Alas!' she said, ^but that is not in my power, sir.
I think my heart is dead.*

Nothing more could be said by John Eadcliffe, for
Michael just then began to stir, and indeed it was well
that he woke, for he had scarcely donned his coat and
allowed Audrey to bind his arms again when Greenhow
appeared. The fellow brought them bread and another
pitcher of water, and told them that he had orders to
take them in a couple of hours* time to the house of
Squire Williamson, the magistrate, at which news
Audrey's cheeks began to burn and tingle. Turning
aside, she made the best preparations she could for feed-
ing her fellow-prisoners, while her great-uncle, with
that curious ability to take all things in the lightest
fashion, did his utmost to make the meal a merry one.
His companions were in prison solely through his fault,
but this never seemed to distress him; on the contrary,
with the perception of the desperate plight they were
all in, his spirits actually rose, and, with death staring
him in the face, he was more than ever determined to
extract the last grain of enjoyment from life.

Michael partly understood how it was with bim, and
could not but admire his courage, but, as a matter of
fact, the examination before the magistrate did not ap-
pear in the least formidable to a man of the world and
a stranger, while to Michael and Audrey it meant the
adverse criticism and the merciless gaze of the people
they had known from their childhood. When Green-

HOPE THE HERMIT 281

how came for them Audrey^s face was of a marble
whiteness.

^ Courage, little Joan of Arc/ said John Badcliffe.
^ ni warrant you are tenfold more brave and pure than
those who will cry shame on you/

So they walked out of the cell and left the quaint,
wooden Town Hall and stepped out into the little Mar-
ket Square, where quite a crowd of people were awaiting
them, since Keswick and the neighbourhood had been
greatly excited by the news of the arrest. For himself,
Michael could have faced the ordeal calmly enough,
but thinking of Audrey, his face flushed and his eyes
grew bright. Alas! bound as he was, he could do noth-
ing save walk by her side. At her right hand were
John Eadcliffe and the constable, while Birkett kept
to Michaels left, elbowing a way for them through the
gaping crowd. He could only hope that she did not
hear the comments of the people. Yet he feared she
did, for her head drooped lower, so that her sunny curls
half veiled her face, and once he was sure that her steps
faltered.

But suddenly her whole bearing changed, for, with a
fierce cry of * Death to the Papist! ^ a burly fellow flung
a handful of mud right into John Kadcliffe's face, and
stones would have followed had not the constable
sternly called the fellow to order.

Then Audrey, who a moment before had been like
one crushed beneath an intolerable burden, seemed all
at once to gain new life. She stopped the little pro-
cession, Greenhow not venturing to object, and there,
before all the people, she drew out her handkerchief and
wiped the mud from her uncle^s face. The man who
had flung it slunk away ashamed, and the crowd
watched in absolute silence, nor did Michael hear an-
other word of abuse all the way to Squire Williamson^s
house.

382 HOPE THE HERMIT

They were taken into the hall, where, early though it
was, quite a number of people had gathered. The
TJnder-Sheriff was there and the other men who hadf
been present at the time of the arrest, and Mrs. Brown-
rigg, very stiflE and stately, with a grim expression about
her mouth and a stony stare for the giri who was to have
been her daughter-in-law. There, too, was Nathaniel
Radcliffe with his calm face and gentle eyes, besides
many others of the gentry of the neighbourhood,
Williamsons and Huttons, distant Radcliffe kinsfolk,
Fletchers from Wythop, and Le Flemings from Monks-
hall.

Someone offered Audrey a chair, but she declined it,
choosing to stand with her uncle and Michael at the
table before which Squire Williamson sat with papers
and an inkhom in front of him. All three prisoners
pleaded guilty: John Radcliffe to a charge of con-
spiring to bring about the return of King James, and
Michael and Audrey to the charge of endeavouring to
aid the escape of John Radcliffe, knowing that a war-
rant was out for his arrest. The Jacobite's case was
quickly disposed of; there was no possible choice but to
commit him for trial, and Squire Williamson gave
orders that he should be conveyed to Cockermouth on
the following Monday.

He next turned to Michael.

' I am sorry you are mixed up in an affair of this sort,
Mr. Derwent,' he remarked, not unkindly. ' It is an ill
beginning, and one that will little please your patron.
Sir Wilfrid Eawson.'

^ Sir,^ said Michael, ' my life has been curiously
changed by Mr. John Radcliffe^s visit to the north. It
seems that I also am a Radcliffe — ^his son by his first
marriage.'

Now, Henry Brownrigg had not seen fit to make this
public as yet, and had bidden his men to hold their

HOPE THE HERMIT 283

tongues, so that when the Borrowdale foundling quietly
announced his parentage there was much excitement in
the hall.

John Badcliffe scanned the faces of the people care-
fully, then turned to Squire Williamson.

' It is perfectly true, sir, and the matter was owned
by me many years ago to Father Noel in confession. He
has long urged me to acknowledge my son, but, on my
return from France, finding him to be a Protestant and
an Orangeite, I put it oflf, and Father Noel could not
speak, as he knew the matter only under the seal of the
confessional. I think you will admit. Squire, that it is
not a great crime for a son to aid his father^s escape.*

But at this Michael started forward.

' Sir, let us keep to the truth,* he said, colouring. ^ I
did not do it for your sake, but solely to help the kins-
man of Sir Nicholas and Mistress Audrey Radcliffe.
They have been good to me all my life.*

There was something frank and spontaneous in this
speech that appealed to those present; moreover, John
Radcliffe^s confession that he would have owned his son
before had he not been a Protestant and an anti-Jacobite
evoked a good deal of feeling in MichaePs favour.

' When did you know that Mr. John Radcliffe was in
the neighbourhood?* asked Squire Williamson.

' The night before last, sir,* said Michael, ^ when, as
I was out catching moths for a collection now being
made by Sir William Denham of the Royal Society and
Dr. Martin Lister, I happened to catch sight of the
Borrowdale Bogle, and, wishing to learn what the phan-
tom really was, stood my ground and laid hold upon it.
I then discovered that it was Mistress Radcliffe canying
food to her great-uncle, who lay hiddeA in the woods.
It was impossible to let her go alone all that way in the
dead of night, knowing, as I did, that the Under-
Sheriff*s men were at no great distance. I went with

284 HOPE THE HERMIT

her and saw her home to Lord^s Island, and it was ar-
ranged that the next evening I should provide a boat,
in which Mr. Eadeliflfe might escape to the further end
of Bassenthwaite and thence go across country to the
sea-coast, for he gave us his word that he would quit
England and weave no more plots. How the Under-
SheriflE dogged my steps and kept watch for us on the
banks of the Derwent you have heard from his own lips.
I have nothing more to say, sir.*

^ I am sorry it falls to my lot to commit you for trial,*
said Squire Williamson, ^ but FU not send you to Cock-
ermouth prison if you are prepared to offer bail.*

Then the old Quaker stepped forward and offered to
find the necessary money.

^ Long ago, when he was but a little lad, Michael Der-
went did me a service when I was haled to Cockermouth
gaol,* he said, in his mild, quiet voice. * *Tis a happi-
ness to me to claim him as my kinsman and to offer him
what help I may.*

There now only remained Audrey*s case to be dis-
posed of, and Squire Williamson looked uneasily across
the table at the slight figure in its cavalier dress, and at
the pale, suffering, yet dignified, face of the girl. He
was a kind-hearted man, with daughters of his own,
and he remembered how only a few months before he
had seen Audrey standing with something of the same
look beside the open vault in Crosthwaite Church, into
which her mother's coffin had just been lowered. It
was a strange thing in those days for a woman to attend
a funeral, but Audrey had been present because she
was the only near relative belonging to the Church of
England, and all the spectators had been forced to real-
ise how desolate the girl*s position would be, left alone
with those whose views were opposed to her own. They
had said then that it was well she was betrothed to
Henry Brownrigg, but that betrothal was now at an

HOPE THE HERMIT 285

end^ for the XJnder-Sheriff had said bo, and indeed
people thought he was well out of the affair now that
the maid had ventured to play so dangerous a part.
Still the squire could not feel harshly towards her.

^ Tell me, Mistress Audrey/ he said, * was it of your
own choice that you learnt of your great-uncle's
arrival?'

* No, sir,' she said, in a low, clear voice, * we none of
us had any choice in the matter. He just came into
the room where I was sitting with my grandfather and
Mr. Noel late one evening and told us that he had fled
from London because he had been involved in a plot
against their Majesties. He pleaded for shelter, and
since it seemed impossible to have him in the house so
often visited by Mr. Brownrigg, it was thought best that
he should shelter among the fells. I was the only able-
bodied one in the house, and went with him to show him
a hiding-place, and again on the Wednesday night I
went to take him more food. The rest you know from
my cousin's account.'

* Yet you are still faithful to the Church of England,
and a loyal subject of King William and Queen Mary? '

* Yes, sir,' said Audrey. * I saw nothing against my
duty towards church or state in carrying bread and meat
to my kinsman, or in steering the boat last night when
we hoped he would have been able to quit the country.'

' Lady Alice Lisle was burnt for a similar offence by
King James,' said the squire, *but, thank God, since
our peaceful revolution, times are changed, and Parlia-
ment has reversed this cruel sentence. Since you assure
me. Mistress Eadcliffe, that you only did this carrying
of food and this aiding and abetting the escape of your
great-uncle out of the natural affection of a niece, I
shall discharge you, and consider that you have already
suffered enough and paid the penalty of what we can
only call a rash deed.'

286 HOPE THE HERMIT

The old magistrate had certainly the sympathy of al-
most all present, and Audrey received many kindly
words when, after taking leave of her uncle, Nathaniel
EadcliflEe escorted her to the door. But, to tell the
truth, she was too much dazed to heed them, and was
chiefly conscious of Henry's air of studied indifference
and of his mother's shrewish words:

* For my part, I think you have fared far better than
you deserve. Mistress Badcliflfe,' she said, with a chilling
farewell curtsey. ^My only satisfaction is in feeUng
that we learnt in time how much we had been mistaken
in you.'

Audrey's head drooped low, and burning tears rushed
to her eyes; she clung closer to the old Quaker's arm,
and wondered what made him glance back with anxiety
in his face to the spot where Henry Brownrigg and
Michael stood exchanging a few last words.

* Your messenger will find me at the Royal Oak/ she
heard Henry say. But, worn out and utterly exhausted
by all she had gone through, it never occurred to her
to think that the words referred to the challenge of the
previous night.

CHAPTER XXIX

Nathaniel Eadcliffe, though he had not heard the
ihallenge given on the banks of the Derwent, instantly
piessed that a duel between the XJnder-Sherifif and his
ival must be imminent. The idea that he had him-
lelf procured MiehaeFs release on bail, and that the
roung man was now going out in hot blood to fight his
memy, disturbed the Quaker not a little. He knew
^ell enough that his young kinsman was in no humour
:o brook interference, nor did he venture to question
tiim, but went home in some perplexity after seeing
A^udrey as far as Stable Hills Farm. All that day he
wraited for what he called ' a leading/ but nothing came,
and at length the old man went to bed and slept
soundly, tired with his disturbed night and the \mex-
pected events of the day. He woke very early and
.went, as his custom was, into the little room over the
porch to pray and meditate. Moving after a while to
open his casement and let in the fresh morning air, he
Was startled to see passing along the road just below the
window no less a person than the Under-Sheriff, and
with him young Fletcher of Wythop. * There is mis-
chief af oot,^ he thought, and, going downstairs, he put
on his three-cornered hat and followed the two men,
whose appearance at such an early hour evidently boded
^0 good.

But the Quaker was old and infirm and the young
^®U were walking quickly; to overtake them was im-
possible; he could only hurry on, taking care not to lose

288 HOPE THE HERMIT

sight of them. Presently they tnmed into a field on
the left, and Nathaniel Badcliffe^ toiling after them,
was quite prepared for the sight that greeted him.
The Under-SherifE was throwing off his coat and waist-
coat; Michael, already in his shirt-sleeves, was examin-
ing his rapier, and the seconds — ^yonng Fletcher of
Wythop and a son of Squire Williamson's, who had been
at the High School with Michael — ^were measuring out
the ground.

There was a general exclamation when they became
aware that the Quaker was approaching them. Duel-
ling, though constantly practised, had long heen against
the law, and Nathaniel Radcliffe, who disapproyed of
fighting altogether, and if struck on the face wonld
have turned the other cheek, had evidently come to
enter a protest.

* Friend,' he said quietly, * more than once before I
persuaded thee against fighting; listen to me now, and
do not stain thy soul with this crime. Who is the
challenger? '

' I am the challenger,' said Michael, hotly, ^ and tliis
time, sir, it is needful that we fight.'

'What is the quarrel?' said the Quaker.

' The Under-Sheriff has brutally and wantonly in-
sulted our kinswoman, Audrey Radcliffe.'

'And once before, friend, he slandered thy mother;
thou wouldst fain have fought him then, and like
enough if thou hadst done so thy mother's name would
never have been freed from blame as yesterday was the
case.'

' Sir,' said Michael, chafing terribly at the interrup-
tion, 'it is an affair of honour. I must fight. For
our cousin's sake I am bound to fight Mr. Brown-

' It will not profit Audrey Radcliffe that thou, for her
sake, dost break Christ's command. The day is not so

HOPE THE HERMIT 289

far off as men dream when duelling and war will be
looked on as brutalities of a bygone time, when the
beast in man was scarce tamed/

*But that time has not yet come/ pleaded Michael,
^ and now to cry off would be accounted dishonourable/

* Who would account it dishonourable? '

* Why, all the world,^ said Michael, keenly sensitive
to the derisive air with which the TJnder-Sheriff was
regarding them.

* The world! ' said the Quaker, a flicker of amusement
passing over his peaceful face. ^ Oh, that may very
well be. But thou hast promised to renounce the
world. Art so little of a gentleman as to break thy
word to the King of Kings because, forsooth, an Under-
Sheriff hath offended thee and thy kinswoman? '

Michael bit his lip. It was clearly impossible to
argue with a man who took this position. He won-
dered if Nathaniel Eadcliffe in the least understood
with what a desperate desire he longed to fight his foe.
Merely to look at Henry Brownrigg's sneering face
made the blood tingle in his veins and stirred in him
that craving to fight which seems bom in every human
being.

^ Friend,^ said the Quaker, ^ there is fighting enough
before thee, but 'tis of a nobler sort than can be carried
on with such a weapon as this. Is John Williamson thy
second? Then let him talk with Henry Brownrigg's
second and say that thou desirest to withdraw from the
contest.'

The Quaker's absolute sincerity always had a curious
influence over Michael. It seemed to lift him up into
3- purer atmosphere, and now, as they stood in the field
over which the glow of the sunrise was just beginning
*o spread, his anger died down. Nicholas Eadcliffe was
surely right; what would it profit Audrey that the grass
find daisies should be dyed with the blood of the man
19

290 HOPE THE HERMIT

who had jilted her, or of the man who had loved her
in yain?

The seconds came to terms, and Henry Brownrigg
was reluctantly forced to relinquish the idea of the duel.

^ If Mistress Sadcliffe^s cousin finds that his courage
fails at the sight of cold steel, I am ready to forego the
fight,^ he said, sarcastically. * Of course it is his con-
cern; if he has no objection to being considered a cow-
ard, and has no longer any desire to call me to account
for the words I used the other night, I certainly am
the last man to object.^

The blood rushed to Michael's face; a storm of pas-
sionate indignation shook his whole frame. But, by a
supreme effort, he held his peace.

The Quaker understood how great a struggle he was
passing through, and, grasping his arm, drew him
quietly from the field, saying in his calm way, as he
passed the Under-SheriflE:

' It is a very small thing that he should be judged of
you, or of man's judgment.'

And, though Henry Brownrigg sneered at this and
muttered something about the devil quoting Scripture
for his purpose, he turned away with a discomfited air
and an uneasy consciousness that the Quaker had had
the best of it.

'The canting old hypocrite has got some extraor-
dinary hold over Michael Derwent,' he reflected, 'but
I'll catch my man some day without his angel in drah
clothing, and methinks he'll fight fast enough then. I
shall not rest in peace till I've run him through the
body.'

Michael breakfasted at Hye Hill and then rowed back
to St. Herbert's Isle to get through the day's work with
hid pupils and to comfort himself by writing a long
letter to Mistress Mary Denham. Late in the after-
noon he rowed across to Lord's Island to inquire after

HOPE THE HERMIT 291

his kinsfolk and to carry his father's message to the old
priest.

Father Noel greeted him very warmly and listened
eagerly to his account of all that had passed.

^Yonr father has very little chance of his life/ he
said, with a sigh. * The feeling in the country against
the Jacobites is most bitter, and we hear that the French
are still masters of the Channel and are ready to devas-
tate the towns on the south coast. I would give much
to be able to see Mr. Eadcliflfe, both as friend and priest,
but you must tell him how matters are with me. Is he
in low spirits?*

^ No,* said Michael, * but full of gaiety, though I know
he expects nothing but death.*

^ He is a brave man,* said the priest, * but utterly reck-
less and unfit to die. Tell him as soon as I can move I
shall visit him at Cockermouth. The trial will not
come off yet awhile, and I trust we may meet. Do you
see him to-day? *

*Yes, I thought of seeing him this evening,* said
Michael, ^ and no doubt Sir Nicholas will send him such
things as he will need to take with him on Monday when
they move him to the gaol at Cockermouth.*

^ To be sure,* said the priest ^ By the bye, you had
best see Sir Nicholas now, for he talks much of you.
He is rejoiced that the Brownrigg marriage will never
take place, but nevertheless frets sadly over Audrey*s
suffering.*

* Can I see her? * asked Michael.

The priest hesitated. His active, scheming mind was
already busy with the future, and he had that very day
indited a private letter to Mr. Salkeld, greatly hoping
that he might now renew his suit.

^I don*t advise your seeing her,* he said, kindly.
* She tries to go about as usual, but *tis easy to see what
a strain it is upon her. No doubt you will meet to-

292 HOPE THE HERMIT

morrow, unless indeed she cannot face the ordeal of
going to service at Crosthwaite and being stared at by
the people. Well, you will see Sir Nicholas, so fare-
well, my boy. I am heartily glad that your rights have
at last been acknowledged.^

And this was true enough, for Father Noel had the
kindest of hearts. Yet, nevertheless, he saw that a
great chance offered itself to him of drawing Audrey
over to his own church, and his mind began increas-
ingly to dwell upon it. With Protestantism represented
by the Under-Sheriff, who had treated her so brutally,
surely it would be easy enough to attract her a Uttle
later on, when the first sharpness of her grief was over,
by such a genial and courteous Catholic as Mr. Salkeld.
As for poor Michael, she had never cared for him, and
he must console himself with the Goldrill estate.
Doubtless, when once she was safely married and had
changed her faith, he would get over his hopeless pas-
sion and would marry someone else.

* The boy has withstood all Father Sharp^s arguments,
and we shall never win him as a convert,^ reflected the
priest regretfully. ^ But Audrey^s mind is more versa-
tile, more ready to change; with care and patience we
ought to win her over.'

CHAPTER XXX

'Lord love us! ^ cried Zinogle, throwing himself back
a his chair and laughing till the tears rolled down his
ace. * To think that the parish clerk refused to be
godfather to ye long ago, and that I, the Dutch fiddler,
LS they call me, am godfather to the heir of Goldrill
sstate! Ah! my boy, ^tis the whiriigig of time that
)rings in his revenges! '

Michael had been telling all that had passed to the old
iddler, and perhaps Zinogle's intense delight in hearing
liis news gave him as much pleasure as he had yet re-
ceived ; for, naturally enough. Sir Nicholas, though
kind and couri:eous, had been more than a little pained
to think of the shabby way in which his brother had
behaved in the past, nor did he like to think that his be-
loved granddaughter would never succeed to the prop-
erty, and would be left a dowerless maid at his death.

Sir Nicholas had a mind which moved very slowly
and did not readily adapt itself to new circumstances.
Srieved as he was to think of the way in which Michael
bad been wronged, he could not all at once feel him to
be of his own blood, and Michael, who was over-sensi-
tive and had a fatal facility in reading people's thoughts,
knew perfectly well that the news which had so changed
Ms whole position came as a blow to the old man on
Lord's Island.

'There's a fate against me, Snoggles,' he said, and
though there was a smile on his lips his eyes were all
the time sad.

394 HOPE THE HERMIT

^ I am doomed to be lonely. I have found my father,
but he*8 on the way to the gallows. I have found my
kinsfolk, but they can scarce accord me a welcome, since
my advent means their future poverty.*

Zinogle did not reply, but taking up his fiddle, played
a grand old chorale which, by its strong confidence, its
satisfying simplicity, fairly drove out MichaeFs des-
pondent thoughts.

* What is that? * he asked eagerly.

* *Tis Johann Cruger's l^un DanJcet dlU Gott,^ said
the fiddler. ^ Keep up your heart, lad; things are work-
ing out far better than you expected when last you sat
here; and I own His nuts to me to see you checkmate
the Under-SheriflE.'

^ I am not so sure that we have done with the Under-
SheriflE now,* said Michael, thoughtfully. ^ He is a man
who takes a good deal of beating.*

Taking leave of the old fiddler, he crossed the Market
Square to the Town Hall and asked Greenhow to admit
him to the lock-up to speak with his father. It was
about eight o'clock in the evening and the constable
grumbled a little, for he wanted to get home to his
supper.

^*Twill not be so easy to see hiin at Cockermouth/
said Michael persuasively. ^ Come, let me have half an
hour's chat with him, Greenhow, and in the meantime
go and drink my health as Michael Eadcliffe at the
Woolpach,^

Greenhow, mollified by the silver coin which found
its way into his hand, proceeded to unlock the door of
the cell, and with a muttered remark that he would
be back in half an hour's time, he left the father
and son together and trudged oflf well content to the
inn.

John Eadcliffe was supping as comfortably as was pos-
sible in such a barely furnished place. He had been

HOPE THE HERMIT 295

allowed to send out for food and seemed in excellent
spirits.

* I made sure I should have had Father Noel descend-
ing upon me/ he said with a laugh. * ^Tis just as well
that he is tied up by the leg, for to be lectured by him
while in the lock-up would be intolerable. Tell him
I'll see him when it's time to make my shrift before
being hung, but not till then.'

^ He would have been here could he have moved,'
said Michael, delivering his old tutor's message.

^ To be sure, worthy man, but, all the same, I'd liefer
see you, my son. Come try this sack; I have tasted
worse. " Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die "
is one of your Bible maxims, is it not? '

^Why do you take so dark a view, sir? It may be
only a matter of imprisonment,' said Michael, shivering
a little at the incongruous thought of death and any-
thing so full of life as the high-spirited, cheery person-
ality of his father.

* Oh, I'll do my best to cheat the gallows,' said John
Radcliffe with a laugh, ^ but at present I am not hope-
ful. That Under-Sheriflf will certainly do his utmost
to put me out of the way, and as yet I can think of no
means of escape. Tell me what you know of Cocker-
mouth. What chance should I have of breaking out
of gaol there?'

* What! you mean escape by stratagem? ' said Michael.
' I was thinking that you might put faith in the well-
known tolerance of King William.'

^ Pshaw ! I'll not be dependent on the Granger's
favour. Besides, curse him! he is a prince, and put
xxot your trust in princes hath ever been a sound axiom.
No, I put faith in my own sharp brains and in the slow
^ts of other folk.'

* If you mean to try another escape of that sort, why,
it had best be done here/ said Michael, thoughtfully.

2^6 HOPE THE HERMIT

Then, a sudden light breaking over his face, he con-
tinued breathlessly, * Why, sir! if you will risk a second
attempt we might carry it out to-night. We are of the
same height and build; our voices are of the same pitch
— ^nay, Audrey says they are precisely alike. If you
change clothes with me, give me your light peruke and
don my brown one, no one would note the diflEerence
of our features in the gloaming.^

John EadcliflEe laughed and rubbed his hands with
an almost boyish delight at the suggestion.

'V faith His excellent!' he cried. 'We^l fool the
TJnder-SheriflE yet. But, boy, it would bring you into
trouble; His scarce fair for me to take advantage of your
proposal.'

^It will but be a repetition of my oflfence, sir. Al-
ready I have to stand my trial for aiding and abetting
your escape. This could make but little difference.'

And, without more ado, Michael began to take off his
coat, while his father eagerly discussed the best wayin
which to get across country to the sea-coast. Fortu-
nately, he still had with him the money which Audrey
had given him in the Happy Valley on the Thursday
night, so that once out of Keswick he was likely \fi
prosper well enough.

* There is the clock in Sir Joseph Banks' house chim-
ing half-past eight,' said Michael; ^ Greenhow will be
coming back. Are you ready, sir? '

* Ay, to be sure,' said John Radcliffe; * whole decades
have rolled off my shoulders on to yours. Come! stoop,
my worthy father, and try your best to look like a
Jacobite conspirator and a man that has knocked about
this wicked world for half a century. How fine a spirit
Audrey showed when she wiped off the mud that bigot
threw in my face! 'Tis rank heresy to say so, but I
somehow fancy you and Audrey, for all your sturdy
Protestantism, stand a better chance of escaping hell

HOPE THE HERMIT 297

than I do; but not a word of that to Father Noel/ he
added^ with a smile.

It was not till afterwards that Michael recalled this
speech; his mind was far too much taken up with the
difficulties of the present to have any room for thoughts
of the hereafter.

* I hear Greenhow^s steps/ he said eagerly. * Farewell,
sir, and may we succeed better this time.^

John Eadcliffe put both hands on his son^s shoulders
and looked searchingly into his eyes. For the first time
in his selfish, reckless life a faint flicker of genuine love
lit up his heart.

^We shall scarce meet again/ he said, with a sigh,
^and I^m half-ashamed to leave you to bear the brunt
of things here. Yet, perhaps Sir Wilfrid Lawson will
again befriend you.'

* Yes, yes,' said Michael hastily. ' You must go, sir,
and here is Greenhow at the very door.'

^ Then farewell/ said John Eadcliflfe, as the constable
entered. *We must not keep Greenhow any longer
from his bed.'

With a hurried embrace and a grip of the hand, he
turned away and pulled his hat low over his eyes and
Walked out of the cell, while Michael flung himself care-
lessly down upon the straw, secure that Greenhow would
notice nothing in the gloom.

The Market Square seemed deserted, and John Ead-
cliffe walked steadily on, his heart beating high with
hope and a smile flickering about his lips as he caught
the sounds of Kinmont Willie from the open doorway
of the Woolpach. The noisy chorus of:

* Wi' the stroke of a sword instead of a file,
They ransom'd Willie in auld Carlisle,'

followed him far in the quiet night.

298 HOPE THE HERMIT

He had crossed the bridge over the Greta, and had
passed Hye Hill, when sounds of a galloping horse be-
hind him filled him with panic. To seek a hiding-place
was out of the question; he could only walk quietly on,
hoping that the dusk would protect him.

The horseman dashed past, then suddenly reined in
his steed and confronted him. To his horror he saw
that it was the Under-Sheriff, his handsome face flushed
with wine, his eyes bright with anger.

*You coward! you poltroon!^ he shouted. ^This is
the very chance I have been longing for. Your Quaker
kinsman shall not step betwixt us again. You chal-
lenged me, and, by heaven 1 you shall not back out of
it. Come! No need of seconds! We^l fight now by
the roadside.^

John Eadcliffe hesitated. He saw that the TJnder-
Sherifif had been drinking heavily; perhaps, after all,
the best way would be to humour him and to fight on
MichaeFs behalf. It would surely be easy enough to
give the fellow a slight wound, and then to go on his
way.

^ Come! ^ roared Henry Brownrigg, ^ none of yonr
hypocritical delays. My blood^s up, and fight me you
shall, Mr. Michael Derwent Eadcliffe, since thaf s yonr
highly respectable name, you foundling beggar! you
eater of the bread of charity! ^

The colour rose to John Badcliffe^s face; he began
to realise a little what he had made his son suffer.

^ I am ready! ^ he cried, flinging off MichaePs coat
and waistcoat, but taking care to retain the brown
periwig.

Then, in the silence of the summer evening, the duel
began.

But John Eadcliffe had counted too much on his an-
tagonists drunkenness. The Under-Sheriff, though
too far gone to penetrate the disguise, was an accom-

HOPE THE HERMIT 299

plished swordsman^ and even now had the better of his
adversary. Moreover, while John EadcliflEe was think-
ing solely how he could slightly disable his foe, Henry
Brownrigg was animated by an overmastering desire to
kill a man he detested — ^a man who stood in his way and
had thwarted and shamed him.

By this time the assembly at the ^ool'paclc had broken
ap, and the combatants could hear two of the singers
approaching theni. They were shouting out the old
song:

* Dacre's gone to the war, Willy,
Dacre*8 gone to the war.
Dacre's Lord has crossed the flood
And left us for the war.'

Henry Brownrigg, wild at the thought of possible in-
terruption, exerted all his strength to control his dis-
ordered faculties, and, just as the men from Keswick
approached him, he triumphantly ran his foe through
the body.

With a groan John Eadcliflfe fell to the ground, and
the Under-Sheriff, sober enough now, bent over him.

^ Michael 1 * he exclaimed, not without a faint feeling
of remorse in his heart, 'can I do anything for
you?'

The dying man half raised himself, made an eflfort to
speak, then, with a gasp of agony, sank back on the
grass. The next moment Henry Brownrigg heard the
death-rattle in his throat and knew that all was over.

' Eh! God ha' mercy on us! what has coom aboot? '
exclaimed Matt Birkett and his companion, approach-
ing. 'Sure enoo 'tis the fight betwixt the Under-
Sheriff and Michael Derwent us heard un planning
t'other night.'

'My good fellow, you guess rightly enough,' said
Henry Brownrigg. ' To my great regret, I have had the

300 HOPE THE HERMIT

miBfortune to kill Mr. Derwent Sadcliffe. As you know,
he was the challenger^ and I had no choice but to fight
himi'

He walked across to the place where his adversar/s
coat lay and drew from the pocket the silk handker-
chief. His fingers happened to touch the embroidered
comer, and, raising it to his eyes, he recognised Audrey's
stitchery in the monogram M. D. The sight touched
him. Perhaps, after all, she had merely cared for him
as a foster-brother and old playmate, and, remembering
how short a time Michael had had to enjoy the knowl-
edge that he was, after all, no nameless foundling, but
a EadclifEe, his heart softened a little.

'We will carry him down to the landing-place and
row him across to Lord's Island,' he said to the two
men. * 'Tis more fitting that he should be taken to his
own kin/

'Ay,' said Birkett. 'Poor young gentleman! I'm
main sorry to think he's gone, but, as you say, sir, the
fight was of his ain seekin'.'

So they covered the dead face with the handkerchief
and threw the coat over the body and bore it to the
nearest boat. Then the two men took the oars, and the
Under-Sheriff steered for the island. Leaving the men
in the boat, and bidding them not carry the body to the
house till fie had prepared the relatives, he strode up to
the main entrance.

The door stood open and Audrey was just coming
forward, bearing in her hands a plate full of scraps for
EoUo, the watch-dog.

He expected her to blush and falter at sight of him,
but she looked him quietly in the face with a composure
that was most daunting.

Had he been a total stranger, she would, he felt, have
shown moje animation; as it was, she seemed to be
aware of his presence, yet to have all at once become so

HOPE THE HERMIT yn

entirely aloof from him that he found it most difficult
to address her.

^ Good-evening/ he said, raising his hat. She coldly
acknowledged the greeting.

^ Do you wish to speak to my grandfather? ' she asked,
her great grey eyes meeting his with the calm indif-
ference which tells of a dead heart.

^ I scarcely know whether to ask for Sir Nicholas or
not/ said Henry Brownrigg. 'The fact is, Fm the
bearer of bad news.'

' Then you had better speak to me,' said Audrey,
quietly. 'My grandfather is very far from well and
has felt the shock of all these troubles terribly.'

'You are aware,' said the Under-Sheriflf, 'that
Michael Derwent — I mean your cousin — challenged me
the other night. We fought this evening in the fields
betwixt the Greta and the Derwent, and, to my great
regret, I have mortally wounded him.'

Life and light came back to her eyes in a look of
agony indescribable.

' Mortally I ' she gasped. ' You don't know that for
certain! — oh, it can't be! it can't be! He was so yoimg
and strong! '

'It is, alas! only too true,' said Henry Brownrigg,
alarmed by the look on the girl's face.

' We may save him yet! ' she cried. ' Where is he?
Oh, Henry, for God's sake take me to him! '

' You do not understand,' he faltered, moved for the
moment by her distress. ' I am trjring to prepare you.
It is all over. He is dead! '

With a stifled moan she threw herself down on the
steps, hiding her face from the light and crying as if
her heart would break. 'He loved me,' she sobbed.
'He really loved me, though I never guessed it. Oh,
fool! fool that I was! I chose your counterfeit love and
thought it real, and never gave Michael aught but pain.'

302 HOPE THE HERMIT

'My love for you was true/ said Henry Brownrigg,
and he meant what he said^ f or^ according to his lights,
he had loved this girl, though mercenary thoughts had
stolen in to mar and spoil everything.

' Audrey/ he went on more eagerly, ' let us forgive
and forget; I will overlook the part you played the
other night, and do you also overlook all that has
chanced since then. Later on, our wedding, so many
times postponed, shall at last take place, and we will
bury the past in oblivion.^

^N"o/ she said, struggling to recover her self-com-
mand. ^ That can never, never be now. It has all
been a dreadful mistake. Wedded, we should be miser-
able. Let us forgive each other, with God^s help, and
then each go on our way. Michael has died for me.
How can I forget that? Ah, you donH understand, and
I — I only see it now when it is too late, and I can do
nothing for him.^

The Under-Sheriff stood looking at her in deep per-
plexity. Was this the gentle, even-tempered girl he
had been betrothed to, or was it the same dignified,
passionless woman who had confronted him on his ar-
rival? Truly women were strange beings. He had
thought of them as pleasant dolls to toy with in idle
moments, but his doll had suddenly developed into the
most complex of all mysteries. Suddenly he remem-
bered that there was one thing which always made the
sex rise to the occasion. A call upon her practical,
womanly help would probably restore Audrey^s calm-
ness.

^ After all was over,^ he said, ^ I rowed here, because
I thought, since he was a EadclifEe, you would wish
that his body should be brought to Lord^s Island.'

^ That was good of you,* she said, in a more natural
voice. ' Which landing-place? '

'The western one. I thought we should not be seen

HOPE THE HERMIT 303

lere from the house. The men are waiting there with
le body/

She caught her breath at that word^ and turned
luickly towards the house, coming back in a minute or
;wo with a lantern, for by this time the Ught had abnost
:aded away.

The TJnder-Sheriff offered to carry it for her, but she
shook her head and walked on swiftly in advance of
him through the orchard and down to the sweet, wooded
shore, where, not quite two years before, she had seen
Michael springs out of his boat after that long absence
at Cambridge. How vividly, and with what cruel pain,
fihe recalled it all! His shy reverence of manner, the
new expression in his eyes, which she had puzzled over,
and his eager longing to find out the truth about his
parentage. Alas! poor Mic! he knew all at last, but the
hiowledge had come too late. And he had died for love
of her!

Her heart was anything but dead now. It was alive
and awake and full of love for the man whose life she
fiad wrecked so unconsciously.

And now they had reached the landing-stage, and
Audrey, holding the lantern high, could clearly see the
outline of her dead kinsman lying in the boat. At a
v-ord from the Under-Sheriff, Birkett and his com-
>anion lifted the body and bore it to the shore, swaying
^nd staggering as they moved, in a way that made Au-
irey turn sick with horror. She gave the lantern to
Senry Brownrigg and signed to the bearers to stop.

'Lay him down here,^ she said, and, as they obeyed,
she lifted the handkerchief from the dead face. The
tFnder-Sheriff drew nearer with the lantern, but he did
Jiot look at the man he had slain; he looked instead, with
jealous eyes, at the girl who was to have been his
^fe. All at once he saw a change pass over her grief-
stricken face — a look of astonishment — ^then, with a

304 HOPE THE HERMIT

cry she started back and caught at his arm^ as if for
support.

^ What is it? What is it? ' she cried. ^ Am I going
mad^ or does death so change faces? He looks like my
uncle Eadcliflfe.*

The Under-Sheriflf bent hastily forward and held the
light close to the dead face; he pushed back the brown
periwig, and saw that the short, light hair beneath it
was streaked with grey, while, seen more clearly, the
face was that of a well-preserved man of about fifty. He
stood there, utterly dumbfounded.

^ Whose, then, is this?^ he asked at last, taking up
the handkerchief and showing the initials to Audrey.

*^Tis MichaeFs,^ she said, without hesitation. *I
worked them for him years ago while he was at Cam-
bridge. The clothes are Michael's. Ah! don't you see
how it must have been? ]\Iichael must have tried to
save him by taking his place in the lock-up.*

* The knave I ' said Henry Brownrigg, furious to
think how he had been cozened. ^But he will find
that such tricks are not to be played with impunity.
This Jacobite father of his was ready enough, no doubt,
to think that he would get the better of me and make
his escape after.'

* Was it, then, arranged that you and Michael should
fight to-night? ' asked Audrey, still trembling with the
mingled excitement and relief of the strange discovery
she had made.

^N"o; we were to have fought early this morning,
when who should step in to mar everything but that
Quaker kinsman of yours from Hye Hill. With much
ado he prevailed upon Michael not to fight, and when,
just now, I saw him, as I thought, alone, and found him
ready enough to let the affair take place there and then,
'twas only natural that I should wish to settle matters.'

' Yes, 'twas natural enough,' said Audrey. ^ Scarce

HOPE THE HERMIT 305

anyone agrees with cousin Nathaniel Badeliffe as to
fightings and no one could blame you for what you haye
done. Still, I suppose, you will haye to stwid your
trial/

'Unless I fly the country,^ said the Under-SheriflP,
musingly. * I must not linger here, in any case. You
had best prepare Sir Nicholas for his brother's death,
and tell him I greatly regret having been the uncon-
scious instrument. I'll row back at once to Keswick,
and the men can wait here and carry the body up to
the house.'

Like one in a dream, Audrey watched him spring
into the boat and push off, then she reverently covered
John Eadcliffe's face, and, telling the men to follow her,
took up the lantern and led the way to the house.

So, after all, the Jacobite's escape had been frus-
trated! Uncle Eadcliffe, with all his schemes and his
light-hearted jests, had passed away, saving, by his death
in this strange fashion, the son he had desired to kill as
an infant and had all his life so grievously wronged.

But Audrey's thoughts could not linger with death,
for her heart had come to life once more and was throb-
bing joyfully with the consciousness that Michael —
Jfiehael, who had so loved her all these years — ^was still
alive and well.
20

I

CHAPTER XXXI

Thb TJnder-Sheriff found his horse cropping the
grass beneath the tree to which he had tied him up, and,
mounting in haste, rode off in the direction of Millbeck
Hall. Here he found only one sleepy serving-man wait-
ing up for him, and, going quickly to his room, he sat
down and wrote a letter to Squire Williamson, announc-
ing to him the startling events of the night, and coun-
selling that Michael should, for safety^s sake, be at once
removed to Cockermouth prison, there to await his trial.
For himself, he said there was nothing left but to flee
the country for a time. Having directed and sealed
this letter, he went up to his mother^s room, for he knew
that he must be gone before a soul in Keswick was astir.

Mrs. Brownrigg listened in dismay to the tale of what
had passed. ^It was a thousand pities,^ she said se-
verely, ^ that Michael was not slain as you thought; liis
father would, anyhow, have come to the gallows, and
then you would have been quit of both.^

The TJnder-SherifE winced. His mother had a blunt
way of putting into actual words what he preferred to
keep hidden away in decent retirement as thoughts of
the heart.

^ I give out that I am fleeing the country,^ he said,
^ but, as a matter of fact, mother, I intend to go secretly
to London, and there to work matters, I hope, to a more
satisfactory issue. One thing is clear, if Michael is tried
here in Cumberland, he will either get off scot-free or
will have but a short term of imprisonment. That, as
you can guess, will not suit my plans at all. I shall wed

HOPE THE HERMIT 307

Audrey Eadcliflfe yet and get the Goldrill estate^ though
she little thinks it. But Miehaers trial must be re-
moved to London, where, with a little management, I
can give things a very different complexion. I shall go
there to prepare matters now, and indeed there is ample
time, for the Assizes are just over. I can safely leave
him at Cockermouth till my plans are laid.^

Mrs. Brownrigg sighed. Her son^s enforced absence,
and the idea of ultimately being obliged to accept Au-
drey as her daughter-in-law, after all, tried her sorely.
^ And what if you fail? ^ she said, dubiously, as with
thrifty fingers she counted out the gold pieces he would
need for his expenses. * What if you fail, Hal? *

' I shall not fail, mother,^ said the Under-Sheriflf, con-
fidently. *I have bungled the matter, thanks to the
twilight last evening, and, to own the truth, I should
have found out the trick the Eadcliffes had played eas-
ily enough had my head been clear. But Michael will
not catch me tripping again. He has been daft enough
to help his worthless father and to get himself into gaol,
and in gaol he will stay far longer than he dreams.*
Then, having made his farewells to his mother and sis-
ter, and left orders that the letter to Squire Williamson
should be delivered the first thing in the morning, the
Under-Sheriff quitted Millbeck Hall, and by sunrise was
well on his way to Penrith.

By the time Squire Williamson walked across the
Market Square to see the prisoner in the lock-up, half
Keswick had heard the strange news of the Jacobite's
escape, and of the duel that had been fought on the pre-
vious evening. For, had not William Hollins walked in
from Stable Hills Farm to order Mr. John Eadcliffe's
coffin? And William was blessed with a real genius for
giving a story in all its detail, so that half the town
knew how at first it was supposed that the dead man
was Michael Derwent, and how Mistress Audrey had

3o8 HOPE THE HERMIT

wept over the death of her old playfellow, and of her
amazement when she found ^ the corp/ as William called
it, to be that of her great-uncle.

Had Michael been awake, he would have wondered
what could have caused so much talking in the Market
Square on a Sunday morning, when, as a rule, the most
perfect quiet prevailed. But, having lain awake most
of the night, wondering how matters would turn out,
and whether his father would escape to the sea-coast, he
now slept profoundly, and did not even hear the un-
locking of the door when Greenhow ushered in Squire
Williamson and a notary.

^ That^s never Michael Derwent,* said Squire William-
son, looking across the cell to the figure stretched face
downwards on the straw.

^ Sir,^ said the notary, ^ the TJnder-Sheriflf in his letter
speaks of the extraordinary change made in the other
by the different colour of the peruke and the change of
dress.'

As he spoke he crossed the cell and shook the sleeper
by the shoulder. Michael instantly started up, and
looked round in a bewildered way. Then, suddenly re-
membering all, and perceiving who his visitors were, he
knew that concealment was no longer possible.

^ I am here in my father's place, sir,' he said, bowing
to Squire Williamson.

^ Sir,' said the squire, ^ I am heartily sorry to find you
here. I know you for a warm-hearted fellow, and can
well believe that you did this rash act with a generous
intent, but you will, I fear, have to pay a heavy penalty,
and you have gained naught as far as your father is
concerned.'

^ He has been arrested, then? ' said Michael, his face
falling.

^ Your father, sir, is dead,' said the squire gravely.

Michael's face became colourless; a sick feeling of hor-

HOPE THE HERMIT 309

TOT came oveT him as he TemembeTed how full of life and
energy his father had been only a few hours before. It
was hardly possible to believe the squire's words.

^ How? ' he asked, breathlessly. * When? *

^It was last night, almost directly after he left this
place/ said Squire Williamson. ^It seems that the
Under-Sheriff, who was riding back to Millbeck Hall,
passed him not far from Hye Hill. Mr. Brownrigg owns
that he had been drinking, and what with that and the
twilight, he never noticed the change, but mistook him
for you. He reminded him that the duel which, I
understand, had been stopped once by Mr. Nathaniel
Eadcliffe, could be fought then without interruption,
and, your father consenting, they fought in the fields
near the Greta, and it was not until Mr. Brownrigg had
taken the body back to Lord's Island that he and Mis-
tress Audrey discovered that it was not your corpse, but
that of Mr. John RadclifEe.'

^I might have known it to be a piece of Henry
Brownrigg's work,' said Michael, bitterly. ^ Squire, you
know well that all my life he has never lost a chance of
thwarting and hurting me. Your son knows how it
Used to be when we were lads together at school. And
How — ^now when I have a right to bring him to justice —
I am fast in gaol, and can't stir hand or foot to avenge
my father.'

^ The Under-SherifE has fled,' said Squire Williamson.
' And as for vengeance, I should leave that, if I were
you, Michael. You cannot be allowed out again upon
bail after deliberately aiding a Jacobite to escape a
Second time. You have made your bed, my poor fellow,
and you will have to lie on it. I am sorry enough that
it falls to me to order you to be sent at once to Cocker-
^outh gaol, but I can't run the risk of keeping you any
longer here in Keswick. I understand that William
l[ollins is in the town, and if you wish, he can row across

3IO HOPE THE HERMIT

to Herberfs Isle and get you such things as you mean
to take with you/

Michael thanked the kindly old man, and begged to
see William Hollins at once, for the escort was to take
him to Cockermouth at noon. The talkative old farmer
gave him a hearty greeting, and would have lingered
telling him every detail that he had imparted to the
people of Keswick, had not the constable remonstrated,
and pointed out that the time left was short. So lie
hastened away promising to row to both islands and to
return with the things Michael would need.

^ For noo that you be the heir we must treat ye as
such,^ he said; ^ and ^t is but fitting that your ain kith
and kin should hear the last news o^ ye. FU be back
afore lang. Bill Greenhow, and doan't ye go a-lettin'
the escort carry Mr. Eadcliffe to gaol till ye see me
agin.*

Left once more alone, Michael's thoughts returned to
his father. Only a day or two before, in that very cell,
he had felt that it was a hard thing to forgive the wrong
that had been done him by his abandonment at birth.
But now he was inclined only to remember the kindlier
traits in his father's character, which, just at the last, he
had been able to see. His life had certainly been reck-
less and selfish, but there was something in the idea of
that silent fight in the fields between the Greta and the
Derwent that appealed to Michael. If long ago his
father had thought of drowning him, and had finally
abandoned him higher up the Derwent, where it flowed
through the wooded heights of Borrowdale, he had, at
any rate, died fighting in his stead further down the
selfsame river.

True to his word, William Hollins returned before
noon, bringing with him Michael's brown peruke, the
clothes he would need during his imprisonment, and a J^e
sealed packet from Sir Nicholas EadclifEe. It contained

•#♦>

HOPE THE HERMIT 311

a purse with twenty gold pieces and a kindly worded
letter, which greatly pleased Michael.

*• Dear Nephew :

Your kindly effort to saye my brother hath endeared yon
to me. He has not treated you as a father and it was scarce
to be expected that you could have a son^s feeling towards
him. That you should have a second time run so great a risk
for him, though sharing neither his religious nor his political
views, touches me more than I con well express. Use the en-
closed during your imprisonment to furnish whatever comforts
are permitted, and let me know when I can in any way serve
you. Doubtless Sir Wilfrid Lawson will ride over from Isel to
see you and hear all that has befallen, and I am confident that
80 just a man will see that your blame in the matter was but
small. Allow me to sign myself

Tour affectionate uncle,

Nicholas Radoliffe.'

Slipped inside was a tiny, three-cornered note from
Audrey, bearing only a few lines.

'Dear Mic:

1 well-nigh broke my heart at hearing of your death last
night. Thank God I I quickly found the news was false, and
that you are alive and well. Have a care of yourself, and do
not lose heart in gaol, and in any difficulty fail not to send
^ord to thy kinswoman and old playmate,

Audrey Raooliffe.'

With the reading of those words a great hope rose in
Miehaers heart. After all, what did imprisonment
Matter if Audrey loved him, or might in time come to
love him? Surely, surely, now that her love for the
tJnder-Sheriff had been so rudely shattered, now that
^Jie found she had been in love with the baseless frag-
ment of a dream, there was some chance that, as Zinogle
had said, the * Whirligig of time would bring in his
Revenges.*
And now there came the sound of horse-hdofs without.

312 HOPE THE HERMIT

and Greenhow opened the door and began to bind liis
armSy though not so ti^tly as on the night of the anest
While the process was going en, Zinogle, with his fiddle
under his arm, boldly stepped in through the open door-
way, and, with a pacifying word to the constable, ap-
proached the prisoner.

' So thou art off to Cockermouth gaol, lad,' he said.

* Fm sorry to hear that, but if s just what the old land-
lord at Cockermouth prophesied when thou wert but a
little chap. If you will go standing up for those that
ye don't agree with, youll hae mony a sair heid.'

^ It can't be helped, Zinogle,' said Michael, with a
smile. ^ Some of us are made that wav. Besides, in
this case it was for my own father. After all, " blood is
thicker than water." '

' It's wrong to speak against the dead,' said the fiddler,]

* but I must say that Mr. John Sadcliffe was a precious!
long time in finding out the truth of that proverb.'

' Let the past alone,' said Michael, with a catch in his
voice. ' He took my quarrel upon him and was slain in
mistake for me.'

^ Oh, I'm not questioning his bravery,' said Zinogle.
^ As far as that goes, he was every inch a man; 'twas
moral courage he lacked.'

Michael made no reply, and the old fiddler, with a
suspicious moisture about his eyes, watched him as he
rode down the street with his escort.

^ An the moral courage went instead to the son,' he
muttered, *' and all the heart, too. If ever there was a
selfish dog it was Mr. John Eadcliff e, and we are not yet
at the end of the mischief he's wrought. Well, I must
e'en hurry my stumps to the kirk, and be in time to play
my fiddle in the psalm after sermon or the vicar will be
hauling me over the coals. Strange things have come
about in this place since I fiddled last Sunday. Tisa
topsy-turvy world! '

CHAPTER XXXn

ReeoUecHona of Michael DerwenL

So much has passed since I last wrote that it is not
easy to set down all with ink and pen. In my hand I
hold a small note in Audrey's writing and cannot refrain
from thinking what a slight thing it was to work so
great a difference. For during the last week it has
twice chanced that I had to submit to the ignominy of
being bound, and, though the first time the humiliation
seemed to me well-nigh intolerable, yet it is wonderful
how circumstances alter cases, for, on that Sunday
morning, with Audrey^s little note in my breast-pocket,
I felt quite indifferent to the cords with which Green-
how made my arms secure. Strange that half a dozen
lines in a woman's handwriting can so affect a man's
whole world! The words were vague enough, too, and
pledged the writer to nothing; yet somehow the note
had filled me with hope, and, as I made my farewells,
even dear old Zinogle's funnily pathetic face, with its
Smiling mouth and its wet eyes, could not send me on
^Uy way hither to gaol in anything but excellent spirits.
At Hye Hill, as we rode past, Nathaniel Eadcliffe sat
heading in the ^orch where, a few nights ago, Audrey
^ad sunk down faint and exhausted. Greenhow allowed
iHe to stop for a few minutes and speak with him, and
he, knowing well what Cockermouth gaol was like, gave
Ihe a few practical hints, which I found useful enough
^hen I got here. Moreover, as usual, the mere sight of

314 HOPE THE HERMIT

his tranquil face did me good and seemed to lift me into
a purer atmosphere.

But I am rambling on with my more recent recollec-
tions, when, as far as I can remember, the last entry I |
made in my book at Herbert's Isle recorded how, on the
night of my mothing expedition, I encountered the Bor-
rowdale Bogle and stood by the beck with knees un-
steady and heart thumping in my breast, while the
spectre, with upraised and grisly hand, approached
me.

Sitting now on a three-legged stool in a very ill-
lighted cell in Cockermouth prison, I must try briefly
to set down the outline of what has since happened,
though my gaoler has procured me very indifferent writ-
ing materials at a most extortionate price, and, more- j
over, writing in gaol is not easy, for there seems a weight J
upon my pen, and my brain works slowly and my words I
halt. More than ever do I now marvel at the wonderful I,
book John Bunyan wrote in Bedford gaol, but the tin- r
ker was one of a thousand and I am but an ordinary V
mortal, and my pen drags on wearily, while I endure the i
stifling heat of a July day in an evil-smelling room
scarce large enough to swing a cat in. However, I have
the place to myself, heaven be praised!

I had writ thus far when who should come to visit me
but Sir Wilfrid Lawson. His jolly face looked graver
than I had seen it for many a day, for the small-pox had
given them much anxiety, though now, luckily, it has
abated, and the stricken patients are getting about once
more.

^ Well, Michael,' he said, ^ what is all this I hear of
you? Sir Nicholas Eadcliffe writes me that you are his
nephew, after all, and that the truth has just come to
light.'

' Ay, sir,* I answered. ' No one but my father knew
the truth of things save Father Noel, and his tongae

HOPE THE HERMIT 315

was tied because he had heard of the matter in con-
fession/

* 'Tis a strange story/ said the baronet^ * and pretty
Mistress Audrey hath been mixed up in it^ I hear^ and
hath been jilted in consequence by the Under-Sheriflf.*

*' Yes^ sir; she had naturally enough been taking food
to her great-uncle when he was in hiding, and had in
fact played the part of the Borrowdale Bogle the better
to disguise herself. I chanced to come across her one
nighty and so learnt the whole truths and it seemed to
me impossible to let her wander about like that alone,
when the Under-Sheriflf had set spies to track the bogle/

*Ay, I see it all plainly enough/ said Sir Wilfrid.
'You went to protect the lady and cared little enough
for the Jacobite traitor, John Badcliflfe.'

^ That is very true, sir. How could I then care for
him? As to his views, I hated them, but I saw no harm
in helping him to quit the country and aiding the kins-
man of those who had ever been my best friends.^

The worthy baronet laughed.

' I told thee how it would be, lad, when thou wert but
an imp of ten. An thou wilt champion everyone thou
dost deem harshly dealt with, thou wilt not find this
world a bed of roses. Bully Barton did his best to bat-
ter thy skull for befriending the Quaker long ago, and
now Bully Brownrigg will assuredly do his best to ruin
thee for defending a Jacobite.^

* The Jacobite was my own father, sir,' I said.

*Ay, to be sure; when did he own that? I should
like to have been present to see the Under-SherifPs
face.'

*He owned it, sir/ I replied, 'on the night of our
arrest, as we stood by the banks of the Derwent. He
owned it in excellent time to shield Mistress Audrey
when that vile Under-SheriflE would have set a scandal
on foot about her. I would you could have heard my

3i6 HOPE THE HERMIT

father's voice as he stepped forward and said I was his
son by his first marriage^ and that it was surely the most
natural thing in the world for Mistress Audrey to be
protected by her cousin. That moment made up for 'ill
the years of dishonour. Had you been there, sir, you
would understand how, after that, I could think of no
diflEerences of view, but only remember that he was my
father and that he had sheltered Audrey from that
brute's foul slander.'

* Yes, yes, it was all very natural,' said Sir Wilfrid,
^ but why need you a second time run your chivalrous
neck into the noose? '

^ My father thought that, if brought to trial, he should
not stand a chance of escaping the gallows, sir. He
asked me as to Cockermouth prison and the chances of
escape from it. Then it flashed into my mind that if
he meant to escape we might contrive it far more easily
from Keswick. Well, you have heard the rest: how he
changed wigs and clothes with me and got away out of
the town, where, unluckily, the Under-SherifE overtook
him, and, mistaking him for me, induced him to fight
and killed him. Have you any notion, sir, where Henry
Brownrigg has fled? Squire Williamson only told me
he had quitted the country.'

^ No one seems to know,' said Sir Wilfrid; ^ and even
were he brought to trial he would probably get off. I
shrewdly suspect that he is by this time in London try-
ing to get evidence against you, lad. And I am uneasy
about it, for Mr. Wharncliffe once told me he thought
you were rash in mixing over-freely with suspected
people. However, we will not go half-way to meet our
troubles. But I fancy that now you are heir of Goldrill,
Henry Brownrigg hates you more than ever, and we
must be on our guard against him, for he is as crafty as
a fox. The one bright spot in the matter is that pretty
Audrey Radcliffe is no longer betrothed to him. Take

HOPE THE HERMIT 317

my advice^ lad^ woo her and wed her before the Under-
SheriflE returns to spoil sport/

^ Would to heaven I could^ sir^ but that is not so easy
in gaol/ I said, looking round the hateful little cell with
its heavily barred window.

^ Oh, we will have you out of this before long/ said
Sir Wilfrid, cheerfully. ^ Never fear, lad! And when
you are free, why, remember the saying, " Happy is the
wooing that^s not long adoing,^* ^ and with that he left
me to meditate on this congenial advice and to dream
over a future which in its brightness contrasted
strangely with the gloom of my prison cell.

It must have been towards the end of July that the
news reached me in prison of how the French had in-
vaded England, had burnt Teignmouth to the ground,
had killed the cattle, and desecrated the churches, de-
stroying altars and pulpits, bibles and prayer-books, and
scattering the luckless people, who were quite without
means of defence. However, such an insult roused all
England. Everywhere troops of horse and foot were
formed, while the Jacobites were execrated on every
hand, and all loyal Englishmen were ready to cry * God
save King William ood Queen Mary.^

I was personally delighted with the turn affairs had
taken, yet, no doubt, my own prospects were rendered
more gloomy by the hatred of the Jacobites, which in-
creased in bitterness every day. Sir Wilfrid even was
fain to admit that this was the case, though he cheer-
fully reminded me that the Assizes were not coming off
yet awhile, and that in a place where I was so well
known people were not likely to credit me with anything
worse than the rashness of youth.

But one night in August I was roused from sleep by
the sudden glare of a lantern, and, looking up, found my
gaoler shaking me by the shoulder.

* What^s amiss? ^ I asked, sleepily.

3i8 HOPE THE HERMIT

* You must dress with all speed/ said the fellow; ^ the
governor will be here anon to speak with you/

Grumbling at the trouble of getting up at such an
hour^ I threw on my clothes and saw, much to my sur-
prise, that the gaoler was thrusting all my possessions
into a couple of saddlebags.

* What are you about, Ned? ^ I asked.

* Obeying my orders, sir,* he said grumpily, and not
another word could I get from him.

In a few minutes steps sounded in the corridor and
in walked the governor; a very civil man he was, and
owing, I think, to his liking for Sir Wilfrid, he had
treated me kindly enough. With him was a stout, red-
faced officer, whose uniform was buttoned so tightly
over his portly figure that it seemed as if at any moment
the seams might split.

*This is the prisoner. Captain Plummer,* said the
governor. ^Mr. Eadcliffe, I have just received orders
for your removal from Cockermouth to London, and
Captain Plummer wishes to start at once.*

He showed me the warrant he had received, and my
heart sank, for I felt convinced that this was all planned
by the Under-Sheriff.

^ Do you mean, sir, that my trial is removed to Lon-
don? * I asked, in some perplexity.

^ I know nothing more than you see here in this letter
of instructions,* said the governor. ^But I should
think that would probably be the case. Very possibly,
too, your evidence is wanted at once by the govern-
ment.*

At this I could not forbear laughing.

^ The government will be bitterly disappointed if it
expects to learn anything of importance from me,* I
said. * Is it likely that any Jacobite would confide se-
crets to an admirer of King William and a Protestant?'

^ Maybe not,* said the governor, * but you are just dia-

HOPE THE HERMIT 319

covered to be the son of a well-known Jacobite plotter,
and you must take the consequences^ sir/

This was true enough^ but it was cold comfort, and,
as I stood there while Ned fastened on the manacles
which Captain Plummer had brought with him from
London^ a chill sense of dread began to steal over me.
These new-fangled gyves allowed a little more freedom
than was possible with arms tightly bound to one's sides,
yet I somehow minded them more than the cords which
Audrey had unloosed for me in the lock-up at Keswick.
Oh, if only it were possible to see her once more before
going to the south! That of course was out of the ques-
tion, but I vowed that I would leave no stone unturned
and would somehow contrive to send her a message.

The governor of the gaol took leave of me kindly
enough and said he would let Sir Wilfrid Lawson know
of my removal; then, with the first grey light of dawn
just streaking the eastern sky, we rode away from Cock-
ermouth. Captain Plummer grumbling much at the ill
Toad which made travelling by night no easy task.

After the close confinement of the last few weeks, it
vv^as pleasant enough to be on horseback again, even in
manacles, and, as we rode along the shore of Bassen-
thwaite, my mind began to work busily with plans for
reaching Audrey.

At length I saw the battlemented tower of St. Kenti-
gem of Crosthwaite rising from the trees that stood
about it, and soon my heart was beating high with hope,
for there, in the rosy morning light, lay Derwentwater
and its wooded islets, and beyond was my beloved Bor-
rowdale with the mountains that had from the very first
been such good friends to me. It was still very early
and hardly any folk were astir in the little town. At
Hye Hill they were evidently sleeping; at the Boyal Oak
they were only just beginning to diow signs of life. We
rode into the courtyard and found a drowsy ostler wash-

3ao HOPE THE HERMIT

ing his face at the pump. Captain Pliunmer called for
ale and bread and cheese^ while the three men that
formed our escort began to water the horses. I paced
up and down the yard, somewhat stiff after the ride, and
on the lookout for any serving-wench or stableman by
whom I could send a message to Zinogle. At last, to
my great satisfaction, I caught sight of the landlord's
little son.

* Billy,^ I said, * don't you remember me? ^

He lifted his twinkling blue eyes and looked at me for
a moment.

* Yes, you are Mr. Derwent; leastways you was.'

' ni give you a groat, Billy, if you^l hurry off this
minute and fetch here old Snoggles, the fiddler.'

Billy darted off without a moment's delay; a groat
was untold wealth to him. He returned in about ten
minutes, dragging poor old Zinogle after him in
triumph.

* The imp would scarce let me take off my nightcap/
said the fiddler, * and my mind misgave me all the way
here that he was but tricking me. In the name of all
that's outlandish, how did you come here, lad? '

' They are taking me up to London, Zinogle,' I said,
hurriedly, ^ though whether to the Gatehouse or the '
Tower, I don't yet know. But, depend upon it, this is
the Under-Sheriff's doing, and I fear things will go
hardly with me out of Cumberland. I promised Mis-
tress Audrey to let her know if anything happened. So,
an you love me, Zinogle, go post-haste to Lord's Island
and tell her that Captain Plummer and his men are tak-
ing me to the south. Bid her farewell for me, and
say '

But there I hesitated. What was I to bid him say?
How could I possibly put into words just what I longed
to tell her? To have done it in any case would have
been difficult, but to do it in cold blood by the lips of

HOPE THE HERMIT 331

a messenger was out of the question. Yet how hard it
seemed to be dragged away to a London gaol with never
a chance of letting her know all the truth 1 And, re-
membering how desperate a struggle I had had to keep
silent during our walk to and from the hiding-place
among the fells only a few weeks ago, I was the more
chafed to find words so difficult to frame now that it lay
in my power to send her a message.

^ Well, lad,' said Zinogle, with a smile lurking about
the comers of his mouth, * am I to tell Mistress Audrey
all that I see writ in your face? ^

* Yes,' I said. * Tell her what I can't put into words,
Zinogle. You have understood me all along, old friend.
Make her understand the truth, too. Tell her how I
wish that we might have had again the chance I dared
not take in Ashness woods. Tell her that all I kept
from saying then I long to tell her now, and see that
you say this, Zinogle — ^that as to my being heir to Gold-
rill, that can make no change, since I will hold nothing
that is not also hers.'

' I'll do the best I can for ye, lad,' said the old man
earnestly; ' but in truth I'm flayte, as the dales-folk say.
'Tis a hard task you've set me. I'll not linger noo, but
be oflE to the island and have a crack with Mistress Au-
drey before the tone of your voice is out of my mind.
Good luck go with you, lad, and may we soon have you
back again in Keswick.'

I echoed that wish very heartily, and watched the old
fellow hurry out of the yard of the Eoyal Oak with
envious eyes.

^Come, Mr. Badcliffe,' said Captain Hummer, ^you
had best feed while you may; we shall lie at Appleby to-
night and have a hot day's work before us.'

I followed him into the inn, pausing, however, to give
little Billy the groat he had earned, and bidding him
tell Zinogle where we lay that night, if he should chance
21

323 HOPE THE HERMIT

to see him again^ for a wild hope seized me that perhaps
Audrey might send me a message or a letter by the old
fiddler^ since in those days to send a letter by post was
not a thing to be accomplished in our part of the world
with ease, letters only being delivered in Cumberland
once a week, and then always with risk of miscarriage.
And all that hot summer day, as we travelled along the
dusty high-road, I had a foolish feeling that Zinogle was
following us, and whenever we paused to bait our horses
I felt a pang of disappointment because he never ap-
peared, as I had hoped, to join our cavalcade.

Then I cursed my folly for having sent such a mes-
sage, for, after all, though I knew Audrey's love for the
TJnder-Sheriflf had been shattered, was it likely that she
would so soon turn her thoughts towards one she had
known all her life as friend and comrade? Alas! I had
often heard that women seldom loved those they knew
best. It was far more likely that in a moment of de-
pression and indifference she would yield to the wish of
her grandfather and wed the son of Sir Francis Salkeld,
who, I very well knew, had long been one of her
servants.

CHAPTER XXXIII

It was still quite early in the morning when Zinogle
landed on Lord's Island and walked up to the half-
ruined mansion. The servants were astir^ however^ and
Betty, the housemaid, with clogs on her feet, and a big
mop in her busy hands, was cleaning the paving stones
in the hall.

* Lawk-a-mercy-me, Snoggles! hoo ye do mak a body
start! ' she exclaimed, as the fiddler mischievously
stole up behind her and gripped the handle of the
mop.

^ A thousand pardons, lass, but I'm in sair haste,' said
Zinogle, ^and want speech with Mistress Audrey on a
matter of great importance.'

^ What! at this time o' day? Man, she be sleeping,
and I'm not the one to waken her, for she be sair spent
since a' the troubles coom aboot.'

' Nathless, Betty, lest worse troubles should come you
had best go and rouse her. And here, as good luck will
have it, the lady herself comes.'

He broke off, bowing low as Audrey hastily crossed
the hall, her wistful grey eyes eagerly scanning his face.
Evidently she had dressed with the utmost speed, and
her hair hung loose and disordered all about her
shoulders.

' I saw your boat, Zinogle,' she exclaimed. ' Is any-
thing amiss? Have you brought news from Cocker-
mouth?'

' If I can have speech wi' ye for ten minutes, mistress.

324 HOPE THE HERMIT

I will tell you aU/ said the fiddler. ^ I was sent here to
you with a message/

' Come into the study; Sir Nicholas will not be down
yet awhile/ she said, eagerly. ^ Is it good news or bad,
Zinogle?'

The fiddler hesitated. He closed the door after them
and sat down as she bade him on one of the old carved
chairs.

^Mistress/ he said, ^it is like most things in this
world, neither wholly good nor altogether bad, but
mixed. I was roused early this morning by little Billy,
son of the landlord at the Boyal Oaky and he bade me
hasten at once to the courtyard to speak with Mr.
Michael Badcliffe. I found him there manacled, and on
his way, in charge of Captain Plummer and his men, to
London, though whether he was to be sent to the Gate-
house or to the Tower, he had not heard. Seeing clearly
enough an enemy^s hand in this sudden removal from
Cumberland, and having promised to let you know what
befell him, he asked me to come to the island and tell
you.'

Audrey had turned deathly pale.

' When once they have him away from his own neigh-
bourhood they may twist and distort what has passed
easily enough!' she exclaimed. ^Oh, Zinogle! if only
I were a man and could travel there myself! What a
miserable thing it is to be a weak woman, tied and bound
by a thousand conventions, and unable to stir, however
much one may long to help! '

^'Twould scarce mend matters were ye a man, mis-
tress,' said the old German fiddler, with a quiet smile.

^Was that all the message?' said Audrey. ^Did he
say no more but just that? '

^Yes, he said more,' said Zinogle, gravely, ^and I
would to God I could put it rightly to ye, dear lady.
I've some skill with the fiddle, but none at all with car-

HOPE THE HERMIT 325

xying lovers^ messages. I would I could mak ye feel
his words as I felt them/

' Lovers' messages, did you say, Zinogle? ' she faltered.

^ Ay, to be sure. Mistress Audrey. It's your lover he's
been ever since he was a little lad in Borrowdale. Sure
3rou understand that much! If you could but have seen
his face just now 'twad have told you more than any
bungling words of mine can ever do. Think of the pity
of it, dear mistress! For years he has loved you, and
been forced to hold his tongue. Then, when seventeen
months ago he heard of your betrothal to the Under-
Sherifif, he looked like one that had got his death-blow.
And now — now when Hope had come once more into
his life, they whirl him away to London without so
much as a glimpse of you, or the chance of a single word.
Mistress, 'tis not every day that such a love as that is
laid at your feet. You'll be sayin', maybe, that 'tis over-
soon to think again of love and marriage, but for the
lad's sake don't let pride and the thought of gossiping
busybodies keep you silent, when silence means doubt
and pain to him. And there were these words I mind
me well that he said to me as we stood there just now.
*'Tell her," says he, ^'hoo I wish I might have had
again the chance I dared not take in Ashness woods.
Tell her that all I kept from saying then I long to tell
her now. And as to my being heir to Goldrill, that can
make no change, since I will hold nothing that is not
also hers." '

The colour came and went in Audrey's face; her eyes
were brimful of tears. When the old fiddler at length
paused, she stole across the room to the open window —
that very window through which John EadcliflEe had
climbed a few weeks ago, bringing by his advent so many
changes into all their lives. She looked across the calm
water to Skiddaw and Latrigg, and she remembered how,
on that night of the arrest, as they had rowed along, the

326 HOPE THE HERMIT

summer lightning had revealed their well-known ont-
lineSy and how the sudden flash had revealed also that
look of pain on Michael's face, that glance in his hazel
eyes widch had recalled to her the wounded stag in
Borrowdale.

^ He shall never have to bear one single pang that I
can hinder/ she thought to herself. And yet how was
it to be contrived? How could she do much for a man
who, even now, had not definitely asked her to wed him;
nay, who had not been able, save in the vaguest way,
and through a messenger, to declare his love? Ah! if
only there were some woman to whom she could turn
for advice, some friend who would understand how it
was with both of them!

All at once she remembered how he had spoken to her
of Mistress Mary Denham. She had heard, too, a little
more of Mistress Denham's friendship with him from
Sir Wilfrid Lawson, when, a fortnight ago, he had come
over to call on them and to discuss the arrangements
that would have to be made before Michaers trial took
place. What was the tale he had told? — something
about a lover or a friend that Mistress Denham had con-
trived to rescue in the times of the Bye House plot, when
he had been unjustly imprisoned in Newgate. A con-
viction that she could hardly have explained sprang np
in her mind, that this unknown Mary Denham was the
one being in all the world to whom she could freely open
her heart, the one woman who would assuredly imder-
stand and know how to advise and help her.

^Zinogle,' she said, turning to the old fiddler with
wet eyes, but with a glow of hope in her face that did
not escape his keen glance, ^you are the best of mes-
sengers. Tell me, if I got you a horse and the money
you would need by the way, could you act as my mes-
senger? Could you go to London, take the letter I am
about to write, and wait for the reply, doing besides any

HOPE THE HERMIT 337

errand in London that the lady I am writing to may
see fit to entrust you with? ^

^Ay, mistress/ said Zinogle, heartily, *I would go
to the ends of the earth for you, and for him that loves
you. And if I have a fresh horse, why, 'tis like enough
I shall overtake Captain Plummer's cavalcade on the
way to Appleby, and might get leave to join them. 'Tis
as well not to travel alone on the North road.'

' Then go and bid Betty prepare you some breakfast,
and tell Duncan to row across to the farm and order the
groom to put his saddle on Firefly in an hour's time.
Firefly is my own mare, so I have a right to do what I
please with her.'

The old fiddler withdrew, and Audrey took writing
materials from a desk on the table, and sat, pen in hand,
vainly trying to put into words all that filled her heart.
It seemed an impossible task that she had attempted,
and one phrase after another was dismissed as too stifF
or too free, till at length, in despair, she found that time
was slipping away and that her sheet was still almost a
blank. Then throwing aside all conventionalities, she
wrote oflf rapidly the following lines:

* Dbak Madam :

You were, I know, a good friend to Michael when he was
in London, and he spoke so warmly to me of all that you
had done for him that I venture now to come to you for help
and counsel. Strange things have passed here of late. The
gentleman you knew best as Mr. Calverley, but who, in truth,
was my great-uncle Radcliffe, proved to be Michael's father,
and Michael twice attempted to help him to escape to France,
not that he agreed with his opinions, but because he wanted to
help us. In consequence of the part I played in helping my
nucleus escape the marriage arranged betwixt me and the
TJnder-Sheriff, Mr. Brownrigg, will never take place ; indeed, I
now see that it has, from the first, been only a mistake — I did
not truly know him. Michael being very angry at some words
which Mr. Brownrigg spoke to me when we were all arrested,

330 HOPE THE HERMIT

tion than of my godson's heart. Women are strange
folk I strange folk! '

And musing after this fashion^ the old man rode back
to Keswick^ where Billy informed him that Captain
Plnmmer and his prisoner had taken the road to
Appleby.

CHAPTEE XXXIV

ZiNOGLE heard of Captain Pliunmer and liis prisoner
at more than one wayside inn and at Penrith^ but he
did not overtake them. On making inquiries, however,
as he rode into the quaint little town of Appleby, he
learnt that they had put up at the King^s Head, and
accordingly he handed over Firefly to the ostler of that
comfortable red-brick inn, and made his way into the
public room. There were some half dozen people pres-
ent, all supping after the toils of the day, and sitting at
table with them were the officer and his charge, who
evidently were objects of great interest to the other
travellers. Captain Plummer talked with his next-door
neighbour, but Michael remained silent, looking tired
and depressed, and as though eating in chains was any-
thing but appetising. His face lighted up, however,
when at last he caught sight of the old fiddler.

' Why, Zinogle! ' he exclaimed. * What do you make
here?*

* Fm on my way to London, sir,* said Zinogle, taking
the vacant place beside him and calling for a plate of
beef and a tankard of ale.

Captain Plummer glanced at him sharply.

**Tis the finest musician in Cumberland, sir,* said
Michael. ^ Presently, no doubt, he will favour the com-
pany with a tune on his fiddle.*

Now, most fortunately, it chanced that the captain
was a great lover of music, and when, after supper,
Zinogle played to them very good-naturedly as long as
they cared to listen, he was so much delighted with the

332 HOPE THE HERMIT

fellow's genius that he was perfectly ready to allow him
to ride in their company for the rest of the journey.
This, moreover, was a natural enough request on the old
German's part, for the North road was by no means free
from dangers. It was extremely easy to lose one's way
altogether between Pontefract and Doncaster, while a
lonely traveller always ran the risk of being attacked by
highwajrmen.

* Bide with us to-morrow, by all means,' said the cap-
tain, as the company dispersed for the night. ' We shall
be starting at six o'clock.' And so saying, he went out
into the passage to give some order to one of the men,
and Zinogle seized the opportunity to thrust Audrey's
note into the prisoner's hand.

* You saw her? ' he asked, his face lighting up as he
put the letter into his breast-pocket.

*Ay, and there's much to hope and little to dread/
said Zinogle. ^ Depend upon it, lad, her heart turns to
you. And in damp weather,' he added, as the captain
returned, ^ the strings will play the very devil with you/
He thrust his fiddle into its case and made as though he
were entirely occupied with it.

*Do you play the air Ko'pe Told a Flattering TdUV
asked Michael, glancing at the fiddler with latent amuse-
ment.

^ No, sir, it's not to my fancy; a peevish, melancholy
tune I call it. Give me a cheerful strain. Good-night
to you, gentlemen; I shall be ready by your leave to join
you at six in the morning.'

^ Very good,' said Captain Plummer, taking the candle
from the chambermaid. ^Now, Mr. Eadcliffe, I must
trouble you to follow me.' And he marched his prisoner
upstairs, the maid looking after them with wide eyes,
and shaking her fist at the captain's portly form when
she was quite convinced that he would not see her.

^The hard-hearted wretch!' she exclaimed as she

HOPE THE HERMIT 333

lighted a second candle for the fiddler^ ^ making a fine
young gentleman like that sleep in irons I I wish Td
the ironing of him! '

^ Tut, tut, lass, he only obeys his orders,* said Zinogle,
chucking her under the chin. * Moreover, he hath a
pretty taste for music. As to the young gentleman,
don't trouble your kind heart about him, for he'll soon
be through his troubles, being as innocent of Jacobite
plots as you are.'

* You're a fond, foolish old man,' said the maid
saucily, thrusting the candlestick into his hand. * 'Tis
not innocence that saves a man from the gallows. Many
an innocent man has been hung. 'Tis interest with
them that be in power, and the sharp wits of those that
love the prisoner.'

And with that she began to sing the ballad of Ths
Prickly Bush, which so took the old fiddler's fancy
thai he would not go to bed until she had taught it him.

Michael, in the room above, had found no opportunity
of opening Audrey's note, being never free from Captain
Plummer's observation. Tingling with impatience, he
had to submit to seeing the candle extinguished, and
there only remained to him the comfort of recalling
Zinogle's words and of clasping tightly in his hand the
unread letter. Meanwhile, through the fioor he could
distinctly hear the weird tune of The Prickly Bush;
nay, even the words were plainly audible in the maid's
clear voice, and then in Zinogle's deep tones.

*0 hangman, hold thy hand/ he cried,

* O hold thy hand awhile ;
For I can see my own dear father
Coming over yonder stile.'

* O father, you have brought me gold ?

Or will you set me free ?
Or be you come to see me hung,
All on this high gallows tree ?'

334 HOPE THE HERMIT

*• No, I have not brought thee gold,

I will not set thee free ;
But I am come to see thee hung,
All on this high gallows tree.'

' O the prickly bush, the prickly bush,
It pricked my heart full sore ;

If ever I get out of the prickly bush,
1*11 never get in any more I '

'O hangman, hold thy hand,' he cried,

* O hold. thy hand awhile ;

For I can see my own dear mother
Coming over yonder stile.'

* O mother, have you brought me gold ?

Or will you set me free ?
Or be you come to see me hung,
All on this high gallows tree ? '

' No, I have not brought thee gold,

I cannot set thee free ;
But I am come, alas t to see thee hung.
All on this high gallows tree.'

* O the prickly bush, the prickly bush.

It pricked my heart full sore ;
If ever I get out of the prickly bush,
I'll never get in any more.'

'O hangman, hold thy hand,' he cried,

* O hold thy hand awhile ;
For I can see my own dear love.

Coming over yonder stile.'

* O sweetheart, have you brought me gold f

Or will you set me free ;
Or be you come to see me hung,
All on this high gallows tree ? '

t

HOPE THE HERMIT 335

^Tes, I baye brought thee gold,* she cried,

* And I will set thee free ;
And I come, but not to see thee hung,
All on this high gallows tree.'

* O the prickly bush, the prickly bush,

It pricked my heart full sore ;
And now IVe got out of the prickly bush,

1*11 never get in any more.'

It waSy perhaps^ not unnatural that he should dream
f his own execution, and of Audrey arriving just in
me to stay the hangman's hand, and bid them take the
>pe from about his neck; but just at the supreme mo-
ment of rapture and relief as he caught her to his breast
>ine noise roused him, and he started up to find him-
ilf in a strange bedroom, with half a yard of chain
>nnecting the iron fetters on his wrists, and with Cap-
lin. Plummer snoring loudly from behind the curtains
E the second bed. The return to reality felt somewhat
i^eary, but nevertheless there was the letter still clasped
let in his right hand; the grey light of early morning
ole in, moreover, through the white dimity curtains,
ad raising himself on his elbow, he broke the seal
nd read very eagerly the words which Audrey had
litten in such haste on the previous day. The letter
as full of eager sympathy and anxiety on his behalf,
nt dared he hope that she really loved him? He read
Id re-read it half a dozen times; it was frank, friendly,
id affectionate, but he could not flatter himself that
lere was a word in it which she might not have written
> him in his Cambridge days, before any thought of
Ve had entered her heart.

His spirits sank yet lower when at Knaresborough he
amt from Zinogle that young Mr. Salkeld had ridden
p to Stable Hills Farm just as he left. And the most

336 HOPE THE HERMIT

dismal visions of Audrey being won over by Father
Noel's arguments to the Bomish Churchy began to haunt
him, while he could readily understand how Sir Nicholas
would hail the idea of a marriage which would promptly
silence the unkind talk of the neighbourhood with re-
gard to Audrey's escapade as the Borrowdale Bogle.
Curiously enough, the only thing that seemed to cheer
him was the strange, weird ballad of Tlit Prickly Bush,
for this was for ever associated with his dream at
Appleby, and every night Zinogle used to sing it, to the
great satisfaction of all his hearers, accompanying it on
his fiddle in a fashion wholly his own.

At length London was reached, and on a sultry
evening towards the end of August, Zinogle took leave
of his fellow travellers, and having learnt that Michael
was to be taken to the Tower, repaired to the Blue Boar,
in Holbom, where Firefly could rest her weary bones
after the week's journey, and where the fiddler found a
rest in one of the upper dormitories.

The next morning, as soon as he deemed it possible to
go to the house in Norfolk Street, he delivered Audre/s
letter and asked to wait for a reply.

The old butler seemed somewhat puzzled by his
strange appearance.

* Mistress Denham only returned yesterday from
Katterham,' he said, and after some hesitation he bade
Zinogle to wait in the very room to which Michael and
Lord Downshire's chaplain had once been relegated.

* There be a strange-looking old man, mistress,' he an-
nounced, ^ awaiting for an answer to this letter,' and he
crossed the withdrawing-room, where Mary sat working
at the household accounts.

She put down her pen, and breaking the seal, looked
with some surprise at the signature, then with keen
interest read Audrey's appeal for help and counsel.
Having ended it, she sat musing for some minutes,

HOPE THE HERMIT 337

wondering how she could best help these loyers, and
seeing clearly enough how difficult was the girl's posi-
tion.

* Uncle and Aunt Denham are at Dr. Martin Lister's^
and will not be home till four o'clock; there is no possi-
bility of consulting them/ she reflected. * I must some-
how get an order to see Mr. Michael Badcliffe in the
Tower, but I don't know whom to ask. Perhaps the
Whamcliffes will know; I will call and see them; and
since this messenger of Mistress Kadcliffe's is a respect-
able old man, he will do as escort. I need not trouble to
take Anne with me.'

Hastily dressing, she went downstairs and began to
question Zinogle a little as to what had passed at Kes-
wick. And still talking over the strange events of the
summer, they made their way to Mr. Wharncliflfe's house,
which stood in a pleasant walled garden in Drury Lane.

It chanced that both he and his wife were on the lawn
at the back of the house, and Mary left Zinogle to wait
within and, joining them beneath the mulberry tree
from which they were gathering the fruit, told them her
errand.

*I can, you see, do nothing until I have seen Mr.
Michael Badcliffe,' she said. ^ And I thought you would
know to whom I ought to apply.'

* Why, that is reversing matters strangely,' said Hugo
Whamcliffe, laughing. ^ 'Tis you, Mary, who knew so
well how to get into a prison, and how to manage
matters in the best possible way with hard-hearted
gaolers.'

She laughed.

*'Twas easy enough to get into Newgate,' she said.
* But I have a notion that for the Tower a special order
is needed.'

^ True, I believe you have to apply to the Secretary of
State. But, then, since my Lord Shrewsbury resigned
22

33S HOPE THE HERMIT

office in the suminer, no fresh secretary has been ap-
pointed in his place. He, no doubt, wonld have been
the man. I should think the best way now would be
to go to my Lord Nottingham, and ask him to give you
a letter to the lieutenant of the Tower.'

* You will have to assure him that you don't mean to
aid and abet the prisoner's escape,' said Mrs. Wham-
cliffe, smiling.

^ Apparently that is what Mr. Badcliffe himself is in
prison for,' said Mary. *And, then, to make matters
worse, of course, he has a love story, which in his absence
is likely to get into a hopeless tangle.'

* I will see my Lord Nottingham, and do my best to
get a letter for you,' said Hugo Whamcliffe. * By the
time you and Joyce have gathered the mulberries and
thoroughly settled this north-country romance,! shall be
back again. Perhaps the old messenger had best come
with me. What a brow the man has! He looks like a
musician.'

* I must come and see him,' said Joyce, thinking little
enough about Zinogle, but as usual following her hus-
band to the door, loth to lose him even for the shortest
time.

^ Don't you remember, Mary,' she said, rejoining her
friend presently under the mulberry tree, ^how last
November, at Whitehall, Mr. Calverley, as we then called
him, spoke of this grievance of Michael Derwent's, and
said it was some unlucky love story? Oh, how I hope
that you will be able to set things right for them, as you
did for us; that you will make two other people as
happy, if possible, as we are! '

* It seems to me that Mistress Badcliffe had far best
come to the south herself,' said Mary. 'Clearly she
longs to do that, and if the case comes on for trial her
evidence is very important. Well, it will be easier to
judge after seeing the prisoner. Poor fellow, I fear he

HOPE THE HERMIT 339

will not be so patient as Hugo was; he is of a different
temperament^ and with a good deal of the hot-blooded
Welshman in him^ I should fancy. It seems to me very
strange that this Mr. Brownrigg could mistake his
father for him. As far as I can recoUect^ Mr. Calverley
did not in the least resemble him. Old Zinogle^ the
messenger^ says their voices were exactly alike, however,
and their height and figure the same. Perhaps, after
all, in the twilight and with the change of perukes, it
was not so unnatural.^

They were still talking of the Cumberland romance
as Hugo Whamcliffe had prophesied, when, in an hour's
time, he returned.

* Here is your letter from Lord Nottingham,* he said,
smiling. * Give that to my Lord Lucas at the Tower,
and you will be admitted as often as you please to see
Mr. Michael Eadcliffe. His case is being inquired into.
It seems that the government have been privately noti-
fied that he is much embroiled with the Jacobite plot-
ters. I fear the fellow was rash when he was here last
winter and in the spring.'

'Did you hear Mr. Brownrigg's name mentioned?'
asked Mary.

*No, but my Lord Nottingham said something of
evidence against him having been gained from a well-
known young Jacobite named Enderby, who says he
met him in June, just after the King went to Ireland;
that he is ready to swear that he was not only in con-
clave with Calverley and Father Sharp, but that a lemon-
letter was actually being written in the room under his
very eyes.'

'And I am prepared to swear that only just before
Michael Derwent and Sir Wilfrid left us in the summer,
he had heard nothing at all of such things as lemon-
letters,' said Mary, ' for I remember how much surprised
he was when I told him about the ones that were so

340 HOPE THE HERMIT

much perplexing the Queen. He had never heard^ then^
of lemon-juice being used for secret correspondence.'

* Enderby is a f eatherpate and a chatterbox, but I
believe him to be honest/ said Hugo Whamcliflfe. ' Try
if you can't get the matter explained by Michael Ead-
cliffe^ for when the case comes on^ it is sure to be used
against him. Don't hasten oflf yet; I have left the old
fiddler having a crack with Jeremiah over a tankard
of home-brewed.'

^ And it is high time we all had our noonings,' said
Joyce. * I will bring curds and cream, and we can eat
them with the mulberries. Take Mary to see the roses,
meanwhile.'

^ To be sure,' said Hugo, leading the way to a path
at the side of the garden, ^ and you must see too how
well the shrubs Mr. Eveljm sent me from Wotton are
thriving. And, by the bye, you must not forget to
wear a flower of some sort when you visit the prisoner;
that was ever part of the programme. Don't you re-
member how, all through that winter, when you came
to see me in Newgate, you contrived to wear either
flowers or bright berries? '

* Ay, and at Christmas, having with great care put on
the best sprig of holly to be found, I learnt that it did
but remind you of the walk to Tybum,' said Mary,
smiling, yet with a little choking in her throat, never-
theless, as she thought of those dark days. * As for the
flowers. Lady Temple had given me the free run of her
greenhouses at Battersea, and I used to ransack them till
the gardener grew to hate me for stealing his best
blooms.'

*Is Lady Temple at Moor Park now?' asked Hugo
Whamcliffe, thoughtfully.

* No, she is in town for the sake of being near the
Queen while the King is in Ireland.'

' It only struck me that, if private help is to get Mr.

HOPE THE HERMIT 341

Michael Badcliffe out of his predicament, Lady Temple
would be the best person living to give advice and
aid/

^True, that is well thought of, Hugo. She hath
great influence with the Queen, and since the sad death
of her son, the Queen's friendship for her has been
stronger than ever/

^ The son was her last living child, was he not? '

* Yes, and of course the shock of his sudden death was
terrible. But I think Lady Temple is one of those
that try to make the outer world the richer when their
private world has been bereaved. She will be sure
to interest herself in such a case as this of Michael
Eadcliffe.'

^ And you, Mary, will, I very well know, hold a brief
for his lady-love. By the bye, what is her name? '

* Mistress Audrey Badcliffe; he is her first cousin, once
removed. But as a matter of fact, they have only lately
known that there was any kinship betwixt them, for
his father only owned him at the moment of their
arrest.'

Hugo Whamcliffe plucked the sweetest roses he could
find for her, and then, while they sat under the tree,
over their noonings, which Joyce had fetched on a
dainty silver t^ty, old Jeremiah, the servant, went to
fetch a sedan chair, in which Mary was carried to the
Tower.

^ Don't forget to come and play your fiddle to me this
evening,' said the master of the house to old Zinogle as
he trotted off in the wake of the chair.

^Ay, ay, sir,' said the fiddler. *I'll sing you the
ballad of Tlie Prickly Bush. And I hope and trust the
lady will contrive to get Mr. Badcliffe out of this prickly
bush he's got himself into.'

Hugo Whamcliffe smiled as he closed the garden door,
and slipped his arm round his wife.

34a HOPE THE HERMIT

* Maiy will get him out if anyone can/ he said. ^ She
has been helping unlucky folk out of the prickles of
life for the last seyen years/ .

' Yes/ said his wife. ^ Somehow it always seems to |
me that she has begun her heaven down here/ |

I,
t

CHAPTEB XXXV

Joyce Whaenclitfe^s words were very true, and
tfary Denham was always singularly happy when with
he two whose happiness had been made out of the
orrow of her own girlhood. Nevertheless, as was but
natural, her life was often lonely and anxious, for no
He can go about helping, as Hugo expressed it, unlucky
^Ik out of the prickles of life without wounding their
wn hands in the process.

She had inherited, moreover, from her father — a
avalier of the type of Lord Falkland — a love of peace,
tid a craving for perfect freedom of religious thought,
''hich, even in the more tolerant days in which she
ved, made perfect satisfaction impossible; while from
er mother, whose childhood had been spent under a
arsh and unloving regime, she had inherited a certain
'istfulness of temperament, not amounting to mel-
ticholy, yet disposing her always to see the pathetic
Lde of life.

And thus it happened that as she was carried be-
eath Temple Bar she shuddered at the ghastly row
f heads set on poles, above the gateway, though
Xost people had become perfectly callous to the familiar
ight; and that, as her chairmen elbowed their way
^tween the houses and the row of posts, which formed
he only protection for chairs and foot passengers from
he wheel traffic of the crowded city streets, she failed
o get much diversion from the amusing sights that
i^ere not lacking, and was keenly alive to the misery

344 HOPE THE HERMIT

and the selfish greed and the sin that weie all too
visible.

When they had passed St. Paulas churchyard, she
drew Audrey^s letter from her pocket and read it care-
fully for the third time, wondering much how she had
best set to work at the difficult task intrusted to her.
Fortunately, she was the last woman to be daunted by
the hardness of a task; she had long ago learnt to grasp
her nettle, and Michael and Audrey could not have
found a better champion. It was in this curious min-
gling of strength and a most womanly gentleness that
her charm, and the secret of her influence, lay.

Her eyes filled with tears when, as the chair was
carried across Tower Hill, she saw from the window the
very place where, seven years before, she had seen Alger-
non Sydney butchered. How vividly the scene still
lingered in her memory 1 Every tiniest detail seemed
burnt in upon her brain: the vast throng of people, the
cold, clear light of the December morning, the black
scaffold, the grumbling executioner, who had asked for
more than three guineas, because, forsooth, the patriot
was of noble birth! And then — amid all the ghastly
surroundings — the death that was like a triumph, the
serene composure of the victim as he handed to his
faithful servant the letter for Hugo, his watch for
another friend, then knelt to say that * prayer as short
as a grace,* with which he commended his soul to God.
Almost she seemed still to see him lying there with his
head on the block, quitting the world with a smile and a
pleasantry on his lips. For the executioner, anxious to
know whether the victim had settled himself or meant
to move any more, had cried out, with the axe poised in
the air:

* Are you ready, sir? Will you rise again? '

And Mary had heard the reply in the clear, firm voice
she knew so well:

HOPE THE HERMIT 345

' Not till the general resurrection. Strike onl '

Alone he had lived — ^for God and the people — and
alone — save for God and the people — ^he had died.

Arriving now at the lion's gate, braced up for the
present effort for justice by the remembrance of the
dead patriot, she handed her letter for Lord Lucas to
one of the picturesquely clad warders, and was admitted
with old Zinogle as her attendant.

It was one thing to come to the Tower as a pastime
to see the lions, and quite another to pass under the
grim gateway of Middle Tower and Byward Tower to
visit a prisoner. Involuntarily she shivered at the gaunt
greyness of the place. Up to the left, pigeons were
wheeling and circling happily about the massive White
Tower with its turrets and its hidden torture chambers,
where in the past so many hundreds had suffered; while
close to the path along which she walked rose the solid
old Bell Tower, from which the curfew was rung, and
within whose walls poor Lady Arabella Stuart had
languished.

Mary turned to the warder with a question:

' Where is Mr. Badcliffe confined? '

^He be in the Bloody Tower,^ said the man. *Up
yonder is his window,* and he pointed to a small, late-
Norman lattice, immediately facing Traitors' Gate.

*Why, that was Colonel Algernon Sydney's room,'
said Mary.

*Yes, mistress,' replied the warder. ^This way, if
you please.'

And he led them up a dark, winding staircase, and
unlocked the door of a narrow cell, measuring about
twelve feet by four feet.

Mary saw that the prisoner was seated with his back
to them, on an oeken bench. He was hard at work
writing, and his inkhom and papers were on the deep,
splayed window-seat. Glancing round to see who was

346 HOPE THE HERMIT

entering^ he sprang to his feet at sight of her^ and came
forward with eager words of greeting and thanks.

^This is good of you, indeed/ he said. *I never
thought Zinogle would have gone to seek you and to
tell you of my misfortunes.*

'^Twas no doing of mine, sir,' said the old fiddler;

* I was but a messenger. However, I will leave Mistress
Denham to explain that to ye, and will have a crack
with the gentleman in the parti-coloured raiment out-
side.*

* Go and have a tankard of ale with him,* suggested
Michael, ^and bid him set it to my account. Drink
to my speedy release, Zinogle.*

^Well,* said the fiddler, mopping his huge forehead,

* I won't deny but it^s hot work walking through the
streets o* London the first week in September. Many a
time I wished myself back in the north country.*

And he strolled off, humming the tune of Ths Oak
and the Ash and the Bonny Ivy Tree.

Mary, who all this time had been quietly observing
the narrow cell and its occupant, could not help rejoic-
ing to see how greatly the events of the summer had
changed Michael. When she had last seen him, early
in June, he had borne the look of one who struggles
bravely on, trjdng his best to do his duty, but finding it
uphill work.

Now, on this September morning, although he was a
prisoner in the grim old Tower, and well knew that his
worst enemy was plotting his destruction, there was an
air of hope and brightness about him which she had
never before seen.

*I think,* she said, merrily, 'you are like King
William. He looks sadly bored at court, but on the
battlefield they say he is as cheery and full of high
spirits as can be. You are far more cheerful-looking
to-day than when you were with us in Norfolk Street'

HOPE THE HERMIT 347

' It is because I have once more something to hope
for/ he said. 'You remember how I told you of my
love to Audrey Sadeliffe? Well, thank heaven, her
betrothal to the XJnder-SheriflE is at an end, and I have
been fool enough to dream that she might, one day, be
my wife. Do you think the hope was too audacious? '

*No, indeed,' she said, gently. 'I think it would
be very natural that, having been wholly deceived in
Mr. Brownrigg, having discovered in time that he
was utterly unworthy of the trust she had reposed in
him, her heart should instinctively turn to the man who
has so long loved her in vain.'

' If I only dared be certain that my hopes were well
founded,' said Michael, pacing up and down the cell
restlessly. * You don't know what it was to pass actually
within sight of Lord's Island last week and never to be
able to see her.'

' You did not quite understand what Zinogle meant
just now,' said Mary Denham. ' He said he had come
to me only as a messenger. It was as Mistress Sadcliff e's
messenger that he came. She has done me the greatest
honour one woman can show to another, and being un-
able to meet you, and hear from your own lips what
you would fain say, has asked me to see you and make
you imderstand all that she cannot write in reply to
your letter. Sir,' she smiled with a certain sweet arch-
ness which for a moment brought back the youth to her
face, * I do not think you need trouble any more about
the audacity of your hope. Your lady has wakened
from a bad dream, and has learnt to look favourably on
your suit.'

' What does she say? What does she say in your let-
ter?' he asked, breathlessly.

And Mary, after a moment's consideration, put the
letter into his hands, feeling that Audrejr's own words
would best reveal her heart to her lover.

348 HOPE THE HERMIT

Michael caught at the sheet eagerly, and unfolding it,
crossed the cell to the one small window, that he might
the better see to read it. When he again turned towards
her he looked radiant, and Mary could not but reflect
that so happy a face could seldom have been seen within
prison walls.

* That is well,^ she said. ^ I am sure, now, that you
understand her.^

^ There is only one thing left to trouble me,^ he said,
sitting down beside her. ^ Zinogle met young Mr. Sal-
keld, one of her suitors, on his way to visit Lord's
Island, and that means, I very well know, that her
grandfather and Father Noel will be doing their utmost
to persuade Audrey to accept him. He is rich, a Papist,
and a very pleasant, good-hearted fellow. And you can
guess how hard it will be for a girl to keep her head
clear when such a kindly and clever priest as Father
Noel does his utmost to entangle her in argument.^

^ True, that is a real danger,' said Mary, thoughtfully,
* specially after the shock of all she has been through,
and the bigotry of Mr. Brownrigg; but don't you
see from this letter how greatly she longs to come to
London? And, indeed, I think her evidence will cer-
tainly be needed.'

^ No, no,' said Michael; ^ think of that long journey
with all its dangers! And what could she do alone in
London? Had her grandfather been fit to escort her,
it might have been different, but he is an infirm, old
man.'

^ As I came here,' said Mary, ^ a plan came into my
head. How do you think it would be if I went up to the
north myself and brought her back with me? '

' It would be heaven to see her,' said Michael. ^ But
the dangers of the journey would be as great for you, to
say nothing of all the fatigue. 'Tis kind and thought-
ful, like all your plans, but ^

HOPE THE HERMIT 349

' Oh! as for me, I am a well-seasoned traveller/ said
Mary, laughing, ^ and quite of an age to play duenna to
Mistress Audrey Sadeliffe. Moreover, it happens that
my cousin Rupert and his wife are staying with kinsfolk
in York, and I think, for the sake of helping me, Rupert
would very likely consent to ride with me to Keswick.
With him, and with old Zinogle, and my own old groom,
who knows the road well, we shall be able to brave a few
difficulties and dangers. There can be no doubt, from
this letter, that Mistress Audrey longs to come, and her
coming is only wise and right, for she did involve you
tirst in this aflfair, and is the only one who can bear
evidence at your trial. By the bye, Mr. Whamclifle
tells me that a young Jacobite gentleman named En-
derby vowed you knew in June of the lemon-letters
that were intercepted and brought to the Queen.'

^ You yourself were the first to tell me of the letters,'
said Michael. ^ But he is so far right that, on the very
night before you mentioned the matter to me, Enderby
came into my father's rooms in Villiers Street and
spoke of the lemon on the table, as though it were a
sign that he might freely discuss his journey to St.
Germains. I puzzled much over the meaning of his
words, and, of course, guessed that all three gentlemen
were plotting King James' return, but you know the
air was thick just then with rumours of plots, and I did
not feel bound to reveal to anyone words accidentally
heard while on a friendly visit.'

* I knew you would be able to explain the matter,'
said Mary, cheerfully. ^ It is clear that Mr. Brownrigg
is secretly trying to poison the minds of those in author-
ity with regard to your case, but we will outwit him
yet. I think, however, it will be best to do things as
quickly as possible, and if I can arrange matters at
home with my uncle and aunt I will set off for the
north to-morrow or the next day. So if you do not see

350 HOPE THE HERMIT

me or hear from me for the next three weeks, yon will
nnderstand that I am on the Great North road/

Michael eonld only reiterate his thanks, realising
afresh how bright a day it had been in his lifers calen-
dar when he first met Mistress Denham in her primrose-
satin gown.

*Are you well supplied with all you need?^ she
inquired.

^Yes, save with patience,^ he said, smiling. ^The
dajrs will seem age-long till you return.'

^ I will write a few lines to Mr. Evelyn, and ask him
to visit you,' she replied. ^He comes to the Tower
occasionally to see my Lord Clarendon. I hear there is
a rumour that he is to be released on bail before long.'

^ Perhaps you would also lend me a few books,' said
Michael. ^I try to while away the time with writing
down my recollections, but 'tis no easy matter to write
in gaol. Methinks other men's thoughts pass the time
better.'

Mary promised to send him her copy of Spenser's
Faerie Queen, and whatever other volumes she could lay
hands on, and having called in Zinogle to discuss the
likelihood of Firefly's having recovered enough from her
long journey to return the next day, she bade the
prisoner farewell, leaving him in the best of spirits,
and purposely forgetting to take away with her Audrey's
letter.

CHAPTER XXXVI

When Mistress Mary Denham once took a matter in
hand she had a fashion of carrying it through at all
costs, and spite of the unusually cold and stormy
weather, which just then set in most unseasonably, she
journeyed to the north and allowed neither wind nor
rain nor bad roads to check her undertaking. They
were forced, however, to sleep at Penrith instead of
pressing on during the last day to Keswick, as she had
intended, and when the kindly landlady of the inn
helped her out of her dripping clothes, she was fain to
confess that she was tired out.

A night's rest soon restored her, and, fortunately, the
weather was, as the people expressed it, ^taking up*
when she woke the next morning, eager to set forth on
the last stage of the journey.

True, the sky was grey as they rode out of Penrith
and looked back for a last glimpse of the Castle and of
the old red sandstone church, but as they journeyed
on past Blencathara the sun shone out brightly, and
Rupert, who had done little but swear at the bad
weather all the way from York, now became once more
a good-natured and cheerful companion.

' Having dragged me against my will from the flesh-
pots of Egypt, that is to say, of the Minster Yard, and
done your best to drown me like all Pharaoh's army,
you are now, it seems, bringing me to the land of milk
and honey itself,' he said, laughing, as they made their
way through the exquisite wooded glen through which
the Greta flows towards Keswick.

352 HOPE THE HERMIT

And Mary thought he had not used over-strong lan-
guage when, presently, a bend in the road brought them
into sight of the little market town nestled on the shores
of Derwentwater, with woods just mellowed by the touch
of an early autumn, and mountains rising on every side
as though to shelter this paradise from the rude outer
world. They put up at the Royal Oak, and Zinogle
went off at once to Lord's Island, bearing a letter to
Audrey from Mistress Denham. As good fortune would
have it, however, he had scarcely quitted the town,
when, crossing the field from Friar's crag, he saw Audrey
herself, with Kitty, her waiting maid, in attendance,
bearing a basket of food and medicine for some invaUd
in Keswick.

^ What, Zinogle! ' she exclaimed, eagerly, hastening
towards him as he dismounted. ^ Are you back so soon?
I had scarce looked for you yet.'

*I delivered your letter, mistress, and here is the
answer,' said the fiddler, unable to resist the temptation
of watching her face as she read the missive. Its sur-
prised delight rewarded the good-hearted old fellow for
all the toils he had undergone, and his broad face was
one huge smile of satisfaction as she took his hand in
hers.

^ Dear old friend, how can I ever thank you for all
you have done? ' she exclaimed, her face aglow with
hope. * Now I must come straightway and see Mistress
Denham, and you must come with me to make me
known to her. Kitty, give me the basket, and do you
lead the mare back to the stable. Poor Firefly! she will
not give you much trouble, being so spent with all this
long journey.'

So Zinogle turned back again to Keswick, and on the
way answered Audrey's eager questions as to where he
had overtaken Michael, how they had prospered on the
road, what his prison was like, and so forth.

HOPE THE HERMIT 353

When, at length, they had reached the inn and were
ushered by the landlady into a private parlour, she looked
most eagerly into the face of the unknown friend who
had ventured so much on her behalf and had responded
so generously to her plea for help and counsel.

Although it was not yet the middle of September,
Mary had ordered a fire to be kindled, for the day,
though bright, was very cold; she was sitting close to the
fender, shaking out the long black feathers of her riding
hat, which had suffered a good deal from the heavy rains
of the last week.

On hearing her visitor announced by the old fiddler,
she rose quickly, and came forward with the most un-
ceremonious and eager of greetings, which at once set
Audrey at her ease and destroyed all her fears of the
unknown fine lady from London. On her part, Mary
Denham looked with keen interest at the girl who had
claimed her help. Audrey, in her mourning attire, and
with her wide grey eyes full of that unconscious appeal
which one sees in the eyes of all who cannot put their
trouble into words, instantly found a place in her heart.
During the summer she had regained her health, and
yet the delicate colour and the youthful contour of the
face only seemed to make its wistful expression more
marked.

Zinogle left them to a tSte-d'tSte, and sitting together
by the hearth, they soon learnt to know each other, for
the friendship that may need years to ripen during an
uneventful period, springs up with the rapidity of
Jonah's gourd when some crisis makes two people feel
a real and instant need of each other.

* I think your wish to be in London is perfectly justi-
fied,' said Mary when she had told of her visit to the
Tower. *' Michael shrank from the thought of such a
journey for you, but was quite at ease when I proposed
coming here with my cousin, Bupert Denham^ to fetch
28

354 HOPE THE HERMIT

you. Then, if you will stay with us in Norfolk Street,
I do not see that you need be exposed to any risk what-
ever. Of course, though, you will like to discuss matters
with Sir Nicholas Radcliffe.'

* Yes, but my grandfather will not, I think, object,'
said Audrey. * I am now of age, and he knows that I
shall never consent to change my faith or to wed Mr.
Salkeld, for I told him so only yesterday, when some
definite reply had to be made to his suit. That trouble
is over; though you would scarce believe me, did I tell
you all the arguings and reasonings we have had as to
it. You see, it was Father NoePs great wish.^

* Yes, and a very natural wish on his part,' said Mary.
' Has he recovered from his lameness? Could you leave
home now?'

'Yes, I am glad to say, he is walking about again,
and will take good care of my grandfather while I am
away. How can I ever thank you enough for coming
here, all this long distance, and for making things so
easy for me? '

' Oh, as to the travelling, I like that very well,' said
Mary, unclasping a little ivory fruit-knife and beginning
to curl her feathers. * And for our return I hope the
weather may be more propitious. Tell me, how soon
could you be ready to start? '

'As soon as the groom will let Firefly travel again/
said Audrey, eagerly. ' The less time we lose the better,
for I dread the Tinder-Sheriff's secret scheming.'

' Yes, there is no doubt that he is at work,' said Mary.
' When I left the Tower, I went to see the wife of Sir
William Temple, a very dear old friend, who has been
like a second mother to me. She is one of the wisest
counsellors I know, and it chances that she has much
influence with the Queen, for Sir William Temple was
the English representative at The Hague years ago.
Her idea is to discuss Mr. Michael Badcliffe's story with

HOPE THE HERMIT 355

her Majesty^ and tell her the whole facts of the case.
If it seems well she will arrange that you should see her
Majesty, and yourself intercede for your lover, explain-
ing how wholly free from blame he has been in this
matter/

'Oh!^ cried Audrey, clasping her hands, 'if only I
could do something for him! It has been so cruelly
hard to wait here since he has been in prison, knowing
all the time that it was my fault he was ever mixed up
in the affair/

* He would scarcely wish not to have been mixed up
in it,^ said Mary, smiling; ' for ^tis to the strange hap-
penings of last July that he owes all his hope for the
future. What a trying life his has been, and how curi-
ously in the end the revelation of his parentage was
made! By the bye, I should much like to see this Bor-
rowdale of whidi he so often speaks; they tell me it is
the most wild region in all England/

She could not, however, be induced to come and stay
in the Lord's Island mansion, knowing well that their
arrival would perturb such a recluse as Sir Nicholas,
and would be little convenient to the young mistress
of the house just on the eve of her own departure.

Audrey induced her, however, to promise that both
she and Mr. Eupert Denham would dine with them on
the morrow, after which they might visit the dale and
see the place where Sir Wilfrid Lawson had discovered
Michael years ago. To everyone's relief, the meeting
between Mistress Denham and Sir Nicholas passed off
very happily. The old knight brightened visibly as
she talked with him at dinner, and afterwards he even
ventured out for a few minutes to pace with her up and
down the pleasance, and to talk with her about his
granddaughter's future.

' The maid will not hear of wedding the son of Sir
Francis Salkeld, which has ever been my wish for her,'

356 HOPE THE HERMIT

he said. 'And the marriage of her mother's devising
with the Under-Sheriff has^ thank heaven^ come to
naught. No doubt, the happiest thing now will be for
her to accept the suit of her cousin, and the sooner they
are wedded the better. I shall raise no objection; in-
deed, I shall be glad to have her safeguarded from Mr.
Brownrigg.^

Mary guessed that the disappointment was much
keener to the old priest, and she could not help liking
him, because she saw that, although he had been check-
mated, he took his failure so well, and evidently hadl^ch "W
real affection for both Michael and Audrey. He and
Eupert Denham rowed the two ladies to Lowdore, and
they walked to the waterfall in the glen behind the
mill, that the visitors might see how fine it looked after
the heavy rains.

* Come! ' said Eupert, cheerfully; ' this well-nigh
makes up for the soaking we got on the road' ; and in his
jovial fashion he began to make Audrey laugh by de-
scribing what he called the cavalcade of drowned rats
which had halted two nights ago at Penrith.

As for Mary, she wandered on, under Father Noel's
guidance, close to the fall, gazing at the wonderful
mass of foaming water, and trying to realise that this
incessant downpour had been falling, falling in snow-
like whiteness ever since the days of Adam, and would
continue long after she«and all she loved had passed
away. Never in her life had she seen anything that so
impressed her as those towering, perpendicular crags on
either side of the cascade, and in presence of this grand
bit of nature, as in the realised presence of God, all the
differences of opinion and practice faded away into in-
significance, so that she forgot the points on which she
and Father Noel differed, and only drew near to him
in the far greater matters which they held in common.

By and bye, as they walked on to Borrowdale and

HOPE THE HERMIT 357

visited the place by the birch tree near the Derwent,
where the Borrowdale foundling had been discovered^
he talked to her long and earnestly as to the danger
Michael stood in from a man of Henry Brownrigg's
overbearing and unscrupulous character, strongly ad-
vising that if, as they hoped, Michael's release was ob-
tained, and the matter never brought before the law
courts, he and Audrey should be wedded with all possi-
ble speed that he might the better protect her.

They ended their expedition by a visit to Anne Fisher
at Grange Farm, and Mary heard her description of the
little foundling brought to her years ago by Sir Wilfrid
Lawson; of how, from the first, they had been sure from
the way in which it was clothed that it was of gentle
birth, together with many details of MichaeFs child-
hood, over which the foster-mother quite forgot her
northern reserve, and chatted in the raciest fashion. Nor
was it possible to depress the good woman, for even after
hearing of MichaeFs imprisonment in the Tower she
was ready roundly to assert that before long they would
have him in Borrowdale again, since all his life he had
somehow contrived to conquer difficulties and win his
way when things seemed most against him.

Her cheerful confidence comforted Audrey not a
little, and carried her through the painful parting with
her grandfather two days later.

It was arranged that they should only ride as far as
York, after which the grooms should stable the horses
in the city, leaving Mary Denham and Audrey to travel
in the coach with Mrs. Eupert Denham to London.

To Audrey the journey seemed endless, but then she
had never in her life travelled further than to Eaby
Castle. Fortunately, she was young and strong, and
could stand a good deal of fatigue; moreover, her girlish
devotion to Mistress Mary Denham made the intercourse
of those days a keen delight, and when, on the Saturday

358 HOPE THE HERMIT

nighty they reached York, both Mary and her cousin
protested that she looked far too cheerful to play the
part of a distressed damsel going to rescue her lover
from prison.

After a Sunday^s rest and a visit to the minster, they
started off by the public coach early on Monday morn-
ing. It was anything but a comfortable mode of travel-
ling, for they were pent up inside the springless vehicle
which held six people and lumbered heavily along over
the rough road, mercilessly jolting the occupants. How-
ever, since the rain was falling heavily, it was something
to be under shelter, and Bupert Denham and his pretty
wife Damaris proved very amusing companions, some-
what shocking two stately old gentlewomen who shared
the coach, but eventually winning their hearts by their
real good-nature.

London should have been reached on the fourth day,
but owing to the rain, and to a slight accident to one of
the horses, which hindered them between Huntingdon
and Hatfield, they did not arrive until the Friday.

Mary looked a little anxiously at her charge, when,
having dismounted from the coach, they drove in a
hackney carriage from the inn to Norfolk Street. For
Audrey, who had been so blithe and cheerful through-
out the journey, seemed now, as they rattled over the
paving stones in the crowded thoroughfares, to look
worn and anxious. She could not have described the
sense of deadly oppression that had stolen over her as
she realised that in this city Henry Brownrigg was
somewhere trying to weave a web of falsehoods which
should entangle Michael and prove his ruin. Every
moment she dreaded to see him, till at length she con-
fided her secret terror to Mary, and was comforted hy
her quiet rejoinder.

* Oh, that is not at all likely to happen. There is
nothing to make him expect your arrival, and you must

HOPE THE HERMIT 359

remember what a great place it is. You are not in the
least likely to come across him/

And yet, had they but known, even as she spoke
these words, Henry Brownrigg, chancing to come out
of the door of the Rainiow Coffee House, caught sight
of Audrey, and amazed by so unexpected an apparition,
followed the coach as it slowly made its way through
Temple Bar and along the Strand, not resting until he
had discovered the house at which it stopped in Norfolk
Street.

A pastry cook^s boy with a tray on his head had just
left the door; he asked him the name of the owner of
the house.

' Why, any fool knows that! ^ said the lad, saucily.
* Sir William Denhpm, to be sure, Mr. Countryman.'

Henry Brownrigg turned away with a frown to reflect
on this new factor with which he had to reckon, and to
arrange his plans, which now bid fair to be seriously
complicated.

I

CHAPTEE XXXVII

Audrey was roused after a good night's sleep by the
strange cries of the London streets; she lay dreamily
wondering what in the world ' Colly Molly Puffe! ' re-
peated again and again^ could mean^ until it died away
in the distance and gave place to the more intelligible
^ New River water! New River water! ' This in its
turn was succeeded by ^ Remember the poor prisoners!'
which completely roused her and made her jump out of
bed and peep through the curtains. Down below in the
street, with a large basket fastened to his back and a
money-box in his hand, walked a thin scarecrow of a
man, with an old, battered felt hat, a ragged coat, and
knee-breeches tied with string. She guessed that he
must be one of the prisoners from Ludgate or the Fleet,
who were allowed to patrol the streets and beg for food
or money, without which the poor wretches must have
starved.

Her thoughts, naturally, flew to her own prisoner in
the Tower, and hastily dressing, she joined Mary and
Sir William Denham in the breakfast room, for it had
been arranged on the previous night that Sir William,
who wished to see Lord Torrington in the Tower, should
accompany them.

It was, therefore, in the Denham coach that Audrey
drove to visit her lover, and as they drew near to the
Tower the colour in her sweet face rivalled the rose
which Mary had pinned in her black dress. Here in
this great gloomy place, which was not one tower, as

HOPE THE HERMIT 361

Bhe had fancied^ but a great collection of towers and
gateways, protected by battlemented walls and port-
cullises, and by a vast moat which could be flooded if
Heed arose, Michael was doomed to remain until the
King and Queen had learnt the true facts of his case
and had been persuaded to release him. Fortunately,
she had absolute confidence in their justice, and her
face was bright with hope as the warder led them up
the winding stone stairs.

'Mr. Badcliffe be taking his exercise on the leads,'
said the man. ' Belike, since the cell is small, you would
liefer see him up there.'

To this they gladly agreed, and as they emerged from
the dark turret staircase on to the top of the Bloody
Tower, Audrey saw her lover intently watching a great
barge just passing by on the Thames. Her heart leapt
within her when Michael came swiftly forward to greet
them, his face radiant at sight of her. Then, after a few
minutes' general talk and many eager inquiries as to
their journey. Sir William and Mary considerately went
with the warder to call upon Lord Torrington, who,
since the battle of Beachy Head, had been kept prisoner,
and was awaiting his trial for his unworthy conduct
on that disastrous day. As they disappeared down the
staircase Audrey glanced half shyly round the battle-
mented roof.

^ They do not give you much space to walk in,' she
said, looking anxiously at him to see how he had stood
the discomforts of prison life.

'I have all I need,' he said, lifting her hand to
his lips. ' The comfort I hungered for was brought
me by Mistress Denham in the assurance of your
love.'

' Oh, Mic,' she cried, her eyes filling with tears, ^ you
will never know how sorely I longed to come with
Zinogle. But I dared not; I feared it might do your

36a HOPE THE HERMIT

cause harm. And when I tried to write to you^ eome-
how the words would not come/

^ My beloTedl ^ he exclaimed^ taking her in his arms,
^ I hardly yet know how to believe that you indeed can
care for me. I have loved you all my life, and when we
were at Baby I dared to hope that you, too, cared. When
that proved a vain dream ^

* Oh, hush! ^ she said. ^ Do not make me think again
of the mistake that has cost us all so much. I was de-
ceived, and that night of the arrest would gladly have
died. And yet, Mic, there was a worse time even than
that. It was when I heard that you were dead, and for
the first time understood all you were to me.'

* Did that make you care? ' he exclaimed.

* It made me understand my own heart,' she replied,
* and for some days I had been learning to see what you
really were. Oh, Mid if you were but out of prison, all
now would be well.'

* I scarcely think I am in prison just this minute,' he

said, raining kisses on her face. ^ As Colonel Lovelace

sang:

*'^ Stone walls do not a prison make
Nor iron bars a cage."

' Dost remember his lines? '

' Yes,' she said, humming the air softly. * And yet,
all the same, dear heart, I long to have you away from
this grim prison.'

* 'Tis not half so cruel a place as I was in when last
I heard you sing,' he said with a smile. ^ Shall I ever
forget that night when Father Noel forced me to come
into the withdrawing-room while you were singing,
" See the chariot at hand here of love " ? ' Audrey clung
to him more closely.

' Mic, it terrifies me,' she faltered, ^ to think how little
we really know what is going on all about us. I must

HOPE THE HERMIT 363

80 often have hurt you^ though I little dreamt it. And
all round us people were scheming and plotting while
eyerything seemed to me clear and simple. It frightens
me now, for now truly we know that the Under-Sheriflf
is almost certainly planning your ruin.'

'The past should give you confidence/ he replied,
cheerfully. ^ See how all the plots have come to naught!
Oh, we shall baffle them yet, I trust, and when I am free,
why, then, Audrey, I will beg you to end this time of
waiting and to be my wife at once. Then together we
can journey back to the north country.'

' Lideed,' she said, blushing. ' Mistress Denham and
my grandfather agreed that it would be the safest
course. And next week I trust to have an interview
with her Majesty, if it can be arranged.*

' Have you yet seen Lady Temple? '

* INTo, there is some idea that we shall see her after
service at the Abbey to-morrow. She always goes there
when at her house at Battersea, and Mary says I must
tell her the whole tale, so that she may be able to inter-
est the Queen.'

* Yet, if you drew a really truthful picture,' he said,
beginning to laugh, ' her Majesty would scarce be moved
to pity. For never, I am sure, was there in this Bloody
Tower a more thoroughly happy man than I am. Think
of the two little princes murdered here; of Sir Walter
Baleigh, who spent one of his imprisonments in the
room below; of Archbishop Laud, and of Algernon
Sydney, who, from the very cell in which I sleep, went
to the scaffold. Hark! I hear steps on the stairs; they
have ended their visit to my Lord Torrington. Now
comes the hard part of prison life — the parting from
you!'

When the Denhams came out on the leads, the two
lovers were standing sedately by the battlements, ap-
parently studying the shipping on the river; but Mary

364 HOPE THE HERMIT

was quite at rest about them when they turned to in-
quire after Lord Torrington, for Audrey's happy face
was crimson^ and in MichaeFs eyes there was the light
which is only seen in the eyes of an accepted lover.

They drove back to Norfolk Street in excellent spirits^
and as they stepped from the coaeh^ a poor old beggar,
bent and crippled, held out his hand for alms; Audrey
dropped a penny into it, being in her happiness very
tender-hearted. But as they went upstairs Mary Den-
ham warned her not to give to street beggars, since the
London streets were full of impostors. As a matter of
fact, the cripple became straight and alert directly he
had reached the Strand, and in a wonderfully short
space of time was making his way up the steep stairs of
a house in a remote comer of the city.

Here he was admitted into the presence of no less a
person than Mr. Under-Sheriflf Brownrigg.

^ I watched the house, sir,' he said, ^ as you directed,
and Sir William Denham, together with two ladies,
drove to the Tower; they have now just returned.'

* Let me hear you describe the ladies,' said the TJnder-
SheriflE, refilling his pipe.

^The elder, sir, might have been about thirty, had
dark hair, and wore a large hat with curling feathers
about the brim. The other was younger and fairer, and
wore a mourning dress.*

^ Good! that will do. Go early to-morrow and bring
me word directly the two ladies go out. They will
probably attend some church; find out which they go
to, and come quickly and let me know.'

Accordingly, on Sunday morning, the beggar again
stood in !N^orf oik Street and asked for alms as the ladies
stepped into the coach.

liis time, however, Audrey shook her head, remem-
bering Mary's warning, and the spy, with an air of
abject misery, stood whining by the carriage-door, listen-

HOPE THE HERMIT 365

ing intently/ however^ to Mistress Denham's directions
to the footman.

^ To the Abbey/ she said^ and having seen the horses
tamed towards Westminster, the cripple cheerfully re-
paired to the city to receive the Under-SheiiflE^s pay, to-
gether with instructions to call the next morning at
nine o'clock.

*

When the fellow had gone, Henry Brownrigg, com-
pletely transformed by a red wig and the attire of a
London tradesman, repaired to Westminster Abbey, and
with some difficulty succeeded in discovering Audrejr^s
whereabouts. All through the sermon he watched her
intently, and afterwards had the satisfaction of seeing
her waiting about with her companion in the nave. He
lingered as near them as he dared, and presently saw
Mistress Denham speak to a very fine-looking old lady,
dressed in deep mourning, who came down the steps out
of the choir. Turning his back to them, he appeared
to be closely studying the carving upon the screen, and
fortune seemed to favour him, for, to escape the rest
of the congregation as they filed down the steps. Mis-
tress Denham moved further aside, so that he was well
within earshot of the little group.

* Lady Temple,* he heard her say, * I want to present
to you my friend. Mistress Audrey Eadcliffe. We won-
dered whether it would be convenient to you some day
to have a talk with her.*

'By all means, my dear,' said a sweet, clear voice.
* Indeed, the less time we lose the better, for it is im-
portant that the Queen learns all as soon as possible.
Come to my house in Battersea to-morrow afternoon at
four o^clock. It is the only free afternoon this week.*

'Unfortunately, I have promised to drive with my
aunt to Enfield Chase,' said Mary Denham. ' Yet it is
important that no time be lost.'

' Yes,' said Lady Temple, ' especially as I shall wait

366 HOPE THE HERMIT

upon her Majesty on Tuesday. How would it be if
Mistress Badeliffe came to my house in a chair? Then
we could have a quiet talk together, and she could be
back in Norfolk Street by the time you return from
Enfield/

^Should you mind that?* said Mary. *You have
probably never seen a sedan chair, but they are really
very comfortable and will take you without any trouble,
on your part, from house to house.'

' I should like to go in one,' said Audrey, who always
enjoyed a novel experience.

So it was arranged that she should pay the visit, as
Lady Temple suggested, and the three ladies walked
down the nave together to the west door, leaving Henry
Brownrigg to saunter slowly down the north aisle, cud-
gelling his brains as to the best way to defeat these
womenfolk who were doing their best to free his rival.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

'I TOLD Michael that the thought of all the plotting
and scheming that had gone on in the past terrified
me/ said Audrey, the next day, as she sat in Mary Den-
ham^s room, while her friend dressed for the expedition
to Enfield Chase. ^Bnt now it seems to me that we
are at an end of all the bad schemes, and everyone is
only planning how to help us. How good it is of you
and Lady Temple to take all this trouble for us I '

* I am sure,' said Mary, brightly, ^ that it is to Lady
Temple, as it has been to me, nothing but a pleasure.
I am glad, too, that you will be alone with her to-day;
you will find it more easy to tell her all about the past.
And, indeed, she will enjoy having you. You know
she has lost her children, and I think the sight of you
^11 be a great refreshment to her. At Moor Park she
las the company of her widowed daughter-in-law and
>f her grandchildren, but here she is sad and lonely
Hough.'

Just then the maid came to announce that the coach
^Hs at the door, and Mary turned to give a farewell kiss
o her guest.

'I must not keep my aunt waiting,' she said.
Thomas will see you safely into the chair, and will
direct the men to Lady Temple's house, and I dare say
y the time you come back we shall have returned too.
■^ood-bye, and good luck to you, dear.'

She ran downstairs, while Audrey retired to her own
oom and finished a letter to her grandfather, telling

368 HOPE THE HERMIT

him of her betrothal to Michael, describing their viat
to the Tower, and telling him of the call she was about
to pay. Then, at three o^clock, feeling very nervous at
the prospect of her interview with Lady Temple, she
went downstairs, and for the first time in her life got
into a sedan chair. It had been carried into the hall,
and the old bntler was giving the chairmen directions as
to the exact place in Battersea where the house stood.
They said they knew it well, and Audrey for the time
forgot her fears in the curious experience of having
the lid put on to the box in which she was cooped, and
in feeling the swaying movement of the chair as the
bearers lifted it and trotted along the street. There
was much to amuse her, moreover, in the crowded
thoroughfares, which she could see through the win-
dows as she was borne along, and to her country-bred
eyes London seemed a most enchanting place. It was
not until she was carried up the well-planted carriage
drive which led to Sir William Temple's house at Bat-
tersea that she began to feel a little alarmed at the
prospect of her interview, and her heart beat imcomfort-
ably fast when the great doors were swung wide to allow
her chairmen to enter and set down their burden in the
great entrance hall.

She ordered them to return in half an hour, and they
left the chair and went oflE, while Audrey was conducted
by the butler through a stately withdrawing-room into
a smaller room beyond, where she found Lady Temple
seated at a reading-stand, whereon lay a volume called
the Story of China by Fernando Mendez Pinto. At her
feet lay a huge mastiff, who rose with his mistress to
receive the visitor, and sniffed at her with approval as
she curtseyed low.

Lady Temple had the most charming manner, and
speedily made her entirely at her ease. Her beautiful
dark eyes grew soft and tender as the girl, little by little,

HOPE THE HERMIT 369

told the whole story of her betrothal to Henry Brown-
rigg and of the manner in which he had jilted her. It
was easy enough to understand the rough awakening
through which she had passed^ and the revelation which
had come to her when she imagined that Michael had
been killed.

* If, as seems likely/ said Lady Temple, ^ Mr. Brown-
rigg is indeed in London and trying secretly to prejudice
Mr. Michael RadcliflEe's case, he will at any rate be un-
able to appear openly, or he might be arrested for caus-
ing the death of your uncle in the duel.^

* Yes, that is all clear gain to us,^ said Audrey. * He
dare not show himself openly. Yet I fear he must still
be doing his utmost to harm Michael, for otherwise
people say he would never have been removed from
Cockermouth, seeing how simple the case against him
really is.*

* You are ready to swear that he has no Jacobite lean-
ings? * said Lady Temple.

* Yes, perfectly ready. Michael has ever been one of
King William's admirers, and though they tried their
utmost to make a Papist of him they failed.'

* To be sure, I recollect Mary Denham told me some-
thing of that. Well, I hope to see her Majesty at Ken-
sington to-morrow and will tell her your story. May I
mention that you are now betrothed to Mr. Michael
Badcliflfe?'

^ We were actually betrothed on Saturday,' said Au-
drey, blushing rosy-red.

*So much the better,' said Lady Temple, smiling.
* Her Majesty is a true woman and loves a romance. I
shall tell her your tale, and try to get an audience for
you with the King.'

* With his Majesty! ' exclaimed Audrey, looking much
alarmed at the prospect.

* That would be by far the best plan/ said Lady

370 HOPE THE HERMIT

Temple. *And my dear, you need fear nothing.
Though brusque of manner, his Majesty is just and
tolerant; moreover, he is quick at reading character,
and I think you would do well, if possible, to plead your
lover^s cause yourself/

It was a formidable prospect for one so little versed
in the ways of the world. Still, to be able to serve
Michael was the keenest pleasure Audrey had known for
many a day, and as she parted with her kindly hostess
her spirits rose at the thought of the work before
her.

*You think her Majesty will indeed give me audi-
ence? * she asked wistfully.

^ I do not for a moment doubt it, my dear,^ said Lady
Temple, touched by the anxious expression of the sweet
young face. ^ The Queen has the Mndest of hearts, and
I have very little doubt that you will soon see Mr. Ead-
cliffe set at liberty.^

The words and the kind, motherly look which went
with them sent Audrey away with a heart full of grati-
tude and hope. As once more she stepped into her chair
and was borne down the drive it seemed to her that their
troubles were at length almost at an end, and she could
have sung for sheer happiness as her bearers trotted
along through the roads and lanes between Battersea
and Southwark, for in those days London Bridge was
the only one across the river.

All at once she was recalled from her pleasant imag-
inings by feeling that her men were slackening their
pace. Looking out of the window, she saw that they
were in a quiet lane and that the men were pausing
before a lonely house standing in a walled garden.

To her amazement, their arrival seemed to be ex-
pected, for the door was flung open, and the men taking
no heed whatever of her rapping on the window and
calling out that they were taking her to the vrrong

HOPE THE HERMIT 371

house, carried the chair right in and set it down in the
lobby.

Then all at once she realised that, although a sedan
chair may be a most comfortable conyenience, it has
one serious drawback: when once you are shut into it
you are absolutely at the mercy of other people, and can
by no possibility get free without help. All the tales
she had ever heard of wicked cities and of luckless
ladies decoyed into dangerous places, came suddenly
back to her memory. Her sole hope seemed to be with
the chairmen, for she had heard Mistress Denham
specially order old Thomas to see that steady men they
had employed before, were chosen.

'Take me out,' she cried. * Carry me to Norfolk
Street, and Sir William Denham will reward you.'

And at that the bearers for an instant showed them-
selyes at the window to shake their heads and reject the
ofifer.

^ Doan't be afraid, missus; you're safe enough,' said
one; and Audrey, to her horror, noticed for the first
time that they were not the men who had brought her,
though they were dressed in precisely the same clothes.

It was but for a moment that she saw them; then they
tramped across the lobby, and Audrey heard the opening
and closing of the front door; after that an ominous
silence reigned in the house.

The horror of this was almost more than she could
endure. Covering her face with her hands, she tried
desperately to think what she could do. Quiet as the
place was, she could scarcely imagine it to be empty, for
who had opened the door to them in that mysterious
fashion as they entered? Would it be possible for her
to break the glass of the window and crawl through the
aperture? She glanced up to see how this plan would
work, stariing violently as she perceived a woman's face
looking in at her. Had it been a good face she would

is*
C

37a J/OPE THE HERMIT

have welcomed it^ but it was as hard as a stone^ and she
knew that she need expect no help from the owner of
that thin-lipped mouth and those steely eyes, with their
subtle, crafty expression. She was horribly frightened,
but some instinct made her conceal her fear. She
rapped imperiously on the window.

* Let me out! ^ she said. * There is some mistake.^

* I can^t let you out, mistress, until you give me your
word you'll go quietly upstairs. There is no one in the
house, and you shall not come to any harm. I will ex-
plain everything to you upstairs.'

Audrey was silent for a minute. It was clearly im-
possible that she should remain boxed up in the chair; ^^
on the other hand, she dreaded the idea of going further .<
from the front door. Still the idea of an explanation M
tempted her, and at length she consented to go. ^

The woman removed the top of the chair and set her
free; then grasping her by the arm, led her swiftly up
the uncarpeted staircase. The house seemed to be, as
she said, quite uninhabited, and the rooms they passed \^
by had no furniture in them. But when, at length,
Audrey was led into one of the back rooms at the top
of the fourth flight of stairs, she found that a smaU
truckle-bed had been prepared, together with a few of
the bare necessaries of life.

*Now explain things to me,' she said breathlessly.
* What do you mean by dragging me up here? '

^I am but obeying my orders, mistress,' said the
woman in a surly tone. *ni bring you some supper
anon. And belike you'll find the explanation yonder.'

She pointed across the room to a small table on which
lay a letter, and as Audrey hastily stepped forward and
opened it her gaoler beat a retreat, locking and bolting
the door on the outer side.

The letter bore neither address nor signature, but in
spite of certain studied differences, Audrey was sure that

HOPE THE HERMIT 373

the writing was Henry Brownrigg^s. She breathed more
freely. Little as she had reason to trust him^ she knew
that there were certain things she need never fear from
him. And the terror that had overwhelmed her when
she first realised that she had been kidnapped and was
utterly alone and helpless in this great city, gave place
to calmer thoughts as she read the following lines:

^ Have no fear; you are perfectly safe in this house
and no one will molest you. But you must remain a
prisoner for the present until certain other plans have
been successfully carried out.^

Clearly Henry had learnt of her visit to the Tower
and feared that his efforts to criminate Michael would
be checkmated. He had even perhaps learnt that she
was to see the King and Queen, and had determined at
all costs to prevent the interview from taking place.

Her brain reeled as she read the words over again:
^You must remain a prisoner for the present.^

How long did he intend to keep her shut up in this
awful solitude? And would he succeed in these other
plans that he spoke of? They could only be plans to
harm her lover, and the thought of her impotence to
help, made her almost desperate. She rushed to the
door, trying in vain to make the lock yield; she went
back to the window, but escape from that seemed hope-
less too, for it was high above the ground, and nothing
was to be seen from it save a large ill-kept garden
bounded by high red-brick walls and apparently given
up chiefly to apple and pear trees, while beyond a few
tall elms effectually shut out any distant view. Where-
abouts she was she had no idea except that she recol-
lected that they must still be on the Battersea side of
the river. To all intents and purposes, she might have
been in the heart of the desert, for no cry for help, no
signal to any other human being was possible. From
actual danger it might be true that she was safe enough.

374 HOPE THE HERMIT

but from the torture of loneliness and anxiety and utter
helplessness there was no deliverance. Worn out with
all she had endured^ she threw herself on the bed in a
passion of tears.

Michael^ who would have been her natural deliverer,
was himself fast in the Tower; Mary Denham and Lady
Temple, with the kindest hearts in the world, could
scarcely hope to trace out the conspiracy to which she
had fallen a victim, for not only were they utterly in the
dark as to Henry Brownrigg^s whereabouts, but they
did not even know him by sight. It seemed to her, as
she lay there sobbing her heart out, that he might baffle
them all with the greatest ease, and satisfy to the full
his greed of vengeance, his cruel longing to pain
rival.

CHAPTER XXXIX

Lady Denham paid a longer visit to Enfield Chase
than they had expected, so that it was already evening
when they returned to Norfolk Street.

'Mistress Radcliflfe has returned, I suppose?^ said
Mary to the old butler as she followed her aunt into the
house.

' Nay, mistress, I have been wondering to myself that
she be as late as this,' said Thomas, and he went out to
gaze along the street for signs of the chair.

'^Tis strange,' said Mary. 'Maybe, however, she is
being kept to supper. I hope there has been no acci-
dent. Did she have steady chairmen? '

' Yes, mistress, the two her ladyship always employs —
respectable men enough.'

Mary looking somewhat anxious, began to climb the
£rst flight of stairs, but paused at the sound of a thun-
dering knock at the front door.

' She must have come! ' she exclaimed, and hastened
down once more, to find, however, no chair as she had
expected, but two breathless and shamefaced men, who
^ere incoherently gasping out inquiries.

' The young lady — ^be she — come back? '

' No,' said Thomas. ' What do you mean? Where is
she?'

' We carried her to Sir William Temple's house and
left the chair there at four o'clock,' said the elder of the
two men, mopping his red face. She bade us come
^ain in half an hour, and we went to get a drink at

376 HOPE THE HERMIT

an alehouse hard by. There two fellows fell a-talking
with lis in a friendly way, and it^s my belief they was
wizards, for, somehow or other, Ben and me we both
dropped oflf asleep, and the next thing we knows was
that the wizards had swopped coats and hats with us^
and was clean gone/

*Did the people at the inn notice naught?^ asked
Mary.

^ Nay, mistress, we was in the parlour alone, and the
wench at the bar she said she thought they was just two
chairmen agoin' away when they left the alehouse some
two hours before. So oflf sets me and Ben to find the
chair, but when we got to Sir William Templets, why,
they told us it had been gone these two hours with the
young lady inside it, and the butler he told her ladyship,
who bade us come back and tell you all as fast as we
could.^

Mary had grown deadly pale; she instantly perceived
that there must have been foul play somewhere, and the
thought that she had perhaps only brought Audrey to
London to expose her to greater dangers made her heart
die within her.

^ Sit down,^ she said, motioning the men to a bench.
* I must tell Sir William Denham and see what can be
done.'

It seemed, alas! that there was very little to do. Eu-
pert Denham and Mary went with the men to the nearest
magistrate, and there made their deposition as to Au-
drey's strange disappearance. The constables and the
watchmen were ordered to do their utmost to trace out
the miscreants who had drugged the chairmen, and
next day all London rang with the story of the abduc-
tion of Mistress Audrey Eadclifife.

It was, however, only too easy in those days for people
to disappear. The wretchedly insufficient supply of
watchmen, the slowness of communication, the stupidity

HOPE THE HERMIT 377

of such constables as were specially employed to search
for criminals^ made many things possible in the seven-
teenth century which in modern times would be carried
out with infinite difficulty, and almost certainly dis-
covered before any length of time had elapsed. It was
resolved that at all costs they must keep the news from
Michael as long as possible, for, pent up in the Tower,
Mary feared that such dreadful tidings would make him
desperate. Each day they hoped to find Audrey, and
beyond writing to Michael to ask him to set down on
paper a full description of the Under-Sheriff to aid the
authorities in their search, Mary held no communica-
tion with him.

Her request seemed to him natural enough, and he
wrote the description as desired, deeming that she did
not wish to trouble Audrey with questions as to the man
who had jilted her. He Vas actually writing the details
of Henry Brownrigg^s height and appearance when, to
his surprise, young Enderby the Jacobite was shown into
his cell.

^Mr. Radcliffe,^ he said, ^I chanced to be admitted
to-day to see my Lord Clarendon, and I have leave to
visit you also. I wish to let you know how deeply I
regret that words spoken by me to a stranger while
dining at Pontack^s early in August should have been
twisted info evidence against you. You will remember
that we met last June in Villiers Street.*

^ Yes,* said Michael, ^ I recollect your coming in while
I was calling on Mr. Calverley. I had then, of course, no
notion that he was my father or that he was in com-
munication with St. Germains, and only gathered that
last fact from the words you let fall.*

* Believe me,* said Enderby, ^ I repeated the story just
as it happened to this scoundrel, thinking him a friendly
fellow and not dreaming that he had a spite against you.
Then he goes to the authorities with a cock and bull

378 HOPE THE HERMIT

story of your having known all about the lemon-letters,
and had the impudence to say I told him that was the
case. I suppose he is this villainous Under-Sheri£E
Brownrigg who is in hiding for having killed your j^
father? '

' There is Mr. Brownrigg's description. I have just
been writing it/ said Michael, handing the paper to his
visitor.

^Ay, he was a tall man, I remember, but he was
wearing, if I recollect, an auburn peruke. The mis-
creant has now wholly disappeared, and God knows
what he has done with your young kinswoman. It
must be hard for you to be a prisoner and unable to help
in the search for her.^

Michael sprang to his feet; the blood rushed to his
face.

'What do you mean?^ he cried in a choked voice.
* For God^s sake, tell me what has happened.*

' Have they not told you?* exclaimed Enderby, greatly
dismayed. ^Why, Mistress Eadcliffe was being carried
back about five o*clock last Monday afternoon from mj
Lady Templets house at Battersea in a chair, and it
seems that the real chairmen were drugged while waiting
for her, and some villains, probably in Mr. Brownrigg's
pay 'tis thought, carried the chair off with the lady in-
side it and she has not yet been traced. *Tis hard on
you, locked up here, but — why, good Lord! my dear
sir, I'm confoundedly sorry to have told you! *

For with the chattering voice of the Jacobite still
pouring forth the words which wrung his heart, Michael
suddenly reeled where he stood, and before his com-
panion could steady him fell heavily to the ground in a
swoon.

When Audrey woke on the Tuesday morning to find
herself a prisoner in the empty house, her heart was

HOPE THE HERMIT 379

heavy indeed. Yet, being young and vigorous, things
did not look quite so hopeless to her as on the previous
night. The darkness was over, no peril had come near
her, and now the sun was shining. Moreover, she could
hear on the stairs the voice of a child, and this cheered
her more than any other sound could have done.

When the surly woman came later on with her break-
fast, the little child strayed in after her, staring with all
his eyes at the pretty lady who stood by the window. He
must have been about five years old, and had a most
friendly look in his blue eyes and chubby, round face.

Audrey held out her watch to entice him, and he was
soon sitting on her knee, looking at the mysterious
ticking clock, as he called it, contained in the little
shagreen outer case.

^ Let him stay with me while I breakfast,* she said,
glancing at the woman.

* Oh, if you like to be troubled with him,* replied her
gaoler with a shrug of the shoulders. But there was
nevertheless a slight softening in her hard face as she
glance^ at the two. The child was very dear to her;
he was also much in her way during the morning, so
that she caught at once at a suggestion which meant
pleasure for him and relief to herself.

It came about therefore that the long hours, which
would otherwise have been intolerable to Audrey, were
cheered by the presence of flaxen-haired Tim, who fell
into the habit of coming in every day with her breakfast
and again with her supper, and amused her not a little
by his childish prattle.

When he was not with her she racked her brain to
think of means of escaping from her prison-house. But
it was not until the Thursday morning that an idea
suddenly occurred to her. Then, as she sat musing
sadly over the terrible trouble which she knew her ab-
sence must be causing to Mary Denham and to Miclva.el,

38o HOPE THE HERMIT

Bomething all at once reminded her of her visit to
Carleton Manor and of the story of Lucy Carleton^s leap
from the window into the tree when she made her
escape from home.

Alas! the only tree near this house grew far below
her window, and by no possibility could she hope to
reach it. But as she gazed sadly down into the tree
so far below her she heard Tim^s cheery little voice
singing in the garden:

* Cuckoo, cherry tree,
Catch a bird and give it me.
Let the tree be high or lo\i^
Let it hail or rain or snow.'

Leaning out of the casement, she saw that he was
skipping, and with the monotonous beat of the rope on
the path, and the sound of the child^s little feet, a
thought suddenly darted into her mind. If she could
only induce Tim to leave his skipping rope with her
when he next came to pay her a visit, surely she might
with its help reach the window below, and escape
through the empty room she had seen as she came up-
stairs on the day of her arrival, letting herself out of the
front door noiselessly while the woman of the house
slept.

Her heart beat so fast at the mere thought of escape
that she had much difficulty in calming herself enough
to think out the details of her plan. More than once
she had thought of climbing down from the window,
but its height from the ground had always baffled her.
Moreover, the woman had taken care to leave her noth-
ing which could serve to help so perilous a descent; the
sheets were mere rags and tore with a touch, while
the small rug which served as a coverlet was far too thick
and strong to be torn into lengths and used as a rope.

She knew that the woman was now in the adjoining

HOPE THE HERMIT 381

room in the front of the house, where apparently she
and little Tim slept. It would therefore be well to
seize the opportunity of speaking to the child in the
garden, and leaning far out of the casement, she man-
aged to attract his attention.

^ Are you coming up at supper time? * she said.

^Ay, mistress, I'm a-comin',' said Tim, kissing his
fat little hand to this captive princess whom he had
learnt to love.

^Then bring your skipping rope to show me,' she
said, ^ and if you'll put an apple in your pocket I will
cut it into a well for you.'

The child nodded and ran off to choose the best wind-
fall ho could find in the grass. Audrey was in terror
lest he should forget the rope, and she hardly knew how
to contain herself for joy when at seven o'clock he
trotted in after his mother as she brought the supper-
tray, with his skipping rope tucked under his arm and
a ruddy apple in his hand.

^ Now cut me the well,' he pleaded. * I want to see
how you make it into a well.'

^ Yes,' said Audrey, ^ you shall see. But first you
must help me to eat my supper.' And the woman left
them, as usual locking the door, and reminding Tim
that she should come for him in half an hour.

* Skip and show me how well you can do it while I
spread you a piece of bread and butter,' said Audrey.

And Tim obediently went through the performance,
after which she gently took the rope from him and
slipped it under her skirt while he was hungrily devour-
ing the food she had prepared.

They chatted merrily throughout the meal, and she
had just finished making his apple-well when his mother
returned for the supper-tray.

^ Look! ' shouted Tim. ^ See what the lady's made
me,' and he was so much enchanted with the novelty

38a HOPE THE HERMIT

of the hollow apple and the delightful little notches
which fitted into each other so daintily that he forgot
all about his skipping rope and went off to bed clasping
his treasure^ leaving Audrey a little sad at the thought
that she had used him as her unconscious tool^ and that
if she succeeded in her escape she should never see the
child again.

However, there was no time to be lost in regrets like
these. She had to examine her rope carefully while
the light lasted. Fortunately, it proved to be long and
strong. Evidently it had been too long for little Tim,
since in several places it had been knotted. And this
reminded her that in the old days when Michael used
to go after the eagles in Borrowdale, the rope by which
he had been lowered had always had strong knots tied
in it, and that knots would be the only means of prevent-
ing her too rapid descent. Even as it was, she knew
well enough that the task would be a difficult one and
that she ran great risk. Still anything seemed better
to her than to allow Michael to remain any longer in the
agonising state of suspense she knew he must be in.
Having carefully tested each knot, she hid the rope in
case the woman should again enter the room, and then
began to examine the window. It was a fairly large
casement, and the lattices swung back close to the wall,
where they could be secured by iron hooks on each side.
In the centre was an upright stone mullion. She tested
it as well as she could, and thought that if the rope were
securely fastened round it she might safely venture the
descent to the window-sill of the room below. She took
the precaution of opening the lattices and fastening
them back at once, but dared not do anything further
until night had come.

The hours of waiting seemed to her endless, but at
last, to her intense relief, she heard the woman toiling
up the long flights of stairs and shutting herself into the

HOPE THE HERMIT 383

adjoining room. Then, in a few minutes, silence
reigned throughout the house. From time to time in
the distance she could hear a church clock striking the
hour, and not daring to let herself sleep, she sat waiting
in an agony of impatience for the first tokens of dawn
to show themselves in the sky. The waiting seemed so
fearfully long that she began almost to fancy her sight
must be failing. However, just as the church clock
struck three a slight change became perceptible in the
outer world. The air seemed to grow colder; away in
the distance she heard the crowing of a cock, and a
glimmering of light began to show itself in the sky.

Stealing gently to the window, she made her rope
fast about the mullion, and with intense anxiety let it
down.

The moment had come, and she scarcely knew
whether delight that her waiting-time was over, or
desperate anxiety as to the perilous descent, or the
sheer terror of pursuit filled the largest place in her
heart.

She swimg herself noiselessly up to the window-sill,
clinging with one hand to the mullion, and trying not
to let her brain grow unsteady as she glanced down that
giddy height. It was bad enough to sit there on the
sill with her feet hanging in mid-air. What would it
be when she -was actually sliding down with nothing
but a child's skipping rope to cling to?

* Well, the longer I look at it the less I shall like it,'
she said to herself, drawing a deep breath. ^ Now! for
the sake of freedom and Michael! *

And with that she bravely gripped the rope, and the
next moment felt herself swaying out horribly into the
dim space. The rope tore through her hands; she slid
down, down, scraping against the wall of the house, till
at length something touched her feet, and clutching
desperately at the mullion of a window, she found

384 HOPE THE HERMIT

herself standing in safety on the broad window-sill of
the rootQ beneath, but so terribly giddy and shaken that
for some moments she could only pant for breath, and
cling with all her might to the friendly shelter of the
window-frame.

At length a little recovered, she bethought her of the
next step in her escape. She had hoped to find the
window open, or at any rate to be able to loosen the
fastening from the outside. But, to her dismay, this
proved to be impossible. She dared not make a noise,
lest hcT gaoler should be roused and all her efforts to
unfasten the casement proved unavailing.

* I must do as Michael's mother did and jump into the
tree,^ she reflected. ' From this lower window it may
be just possible — nay, it shall be possible.^

The words of the child's song floated through her
mind, and with the courage bom of love she forced her-
self to face round upon the window-sill, to stand up-
right, then to bend for that desperate jump which would
mean safety or death.

* I must see the King and Queen and tell them the
truth,' she reflected, ' or Michael may be ruined.'

And as she sprang towards the cherry tree she seemed
to hear Tim's voice gaily singing:

*Let the tree be high or low,
Let it hail or rain or snow.'

There was a crash as of a broken branch; then the
next thing she knew was that she was clinging to a
rugged and moss-grown old trunk, that her hair had
caught in the branches above her, and that blood was
trickling slowly down her hands and arms. To dis-
engage herself and climb down from the tree was no
difficult task to a country-bred girl. With a feeliag
of rapture she found herself safely on the wet grass, and

HOPE THE HERMIT 385

began hurriedly to walk down to the place where from
her window she had seen the row of elm trees. Alas!
to her dismay she found that the high wall bound the
garden in this direction also, and that it must be scaled
before she was really free. Moreover, it was a red-
brick wall, not like the loose stone walls used in Borrow-
dale to fence the fields. She was an adept at climbing
those^ but to get over this much higher and more diffi-
cult one would tax all her powers. Luckily, in one
comer she came upon an apple tree planted against it.
And, to her delight, the thick, strong branches closely
nailed up against the bricks proved almost as good as
a ladder. Audrey climbed up to the top valiantly, then
looked anxiously to see how she would fare on the other
side. Beneath her there was a dusty road. Away in
the distance she could see the chimneys of houses or
cottages, and immediately opposite her was another
red-brick wall, evidently bounding some other garden.
There was no help for it; she must let herself down as
well as she could and trust to reach the road without
broken bones. Swinging herself over, she hung by her
hands for a moment, then dropped, rolled over twice,
struck her head aginst a stone in the road and lay there
in the dust stunned.

She was roused in a few minutes by the heavy rum-
bling of wheels, but was still so dazed by her fall that
she could not make up her mind to stir. Then the
wheels stopped and footsteps drew near, at which she
started up in sudden alarm. In the road she saw a
market wagon laden with apples, and beside her, looking
greatly perplexed, was a countryman in a smock frock
and broad felt hat.

' Art hurt, mistress? * he said, glancing at her bleed-
ing hands and torn dress.

^ Yes,* she said faintly. ^ I have been carried off by
two ruffians and have only escaped with great difficulty.
25

386 HOPE THE HERMIT

Pray take me in your cart as far as Norfolk Street^ and
my friends will reward you/

' Why, I^m but a wagoner, mistress, on my way to
Covent Garden market; His scarce a fit way for a lady
like yourself to travel,^ he said hesitatingly.

' Oh, it will do excellent well,^ she said. ^ Only let me
take shelter in it at once, for I am in terror lest they j
follow me.^

* Never fear, mistress; 1*11 settle the man that tries to
lay hands on ye,* said the sturdy countryman. And
with that he helped her into the wagon and covered her
with a great bit of sacking; then touching up his horses,
drove on towards London, promising to set her down in
Norfolk Street before he went to the market.

The wagon jolted and rumbled on over the rough
roads, but Audrey thought it was the most blissful ride
she had ever known, and she could have kissed the old
driver when at length he lifted her down at the door of
Sir William Denham^s house. His loud knock at the
door speedily brought — ^not the old serving-man^ but
Mistress Mary Denham herself to open it.

^ Oh, my dear! my dear I * she cried, taking the girl
in her arms. ^How thankful I am to see you safely
back! We have been distracted about you. Are you
indeed unharmed?'

^ Quite,* said Audrey, clinging to her. ^And pray
give this good countryman the reward he deserves, for
without his help I should never have got here.*

^ Ma*am,* said the old wagoner, ^ I found her a-lying
in the road as white as a broken lily, and right glad I
am I chanced to be passing along to market. She must
have climbed over the wall of the house that used to
belong to old Squire Mallinder. It*s been empty this
year and more — Millbeck House, you know, ma^am,
where the poor old gentleman was killed by his gar-
dener.*

HOPE THE HERMIT 387

*To be rare, I remember hearing of it/ said Mary,
and again warmly thanking the man for his help,
she turned once more to Audrey as though loth to take
her eyes ofE her now that at length she had come back
to theuL

CHAPTER XL

"You are sure no harm has befallen you?^ she said
anxiously, leading the girl to her room.

^ None/ said Audrey, ^ but I have had a terrible
fright/

^ And you have hurt your hands and arms/ said Mary.
' You must let me bind them up for you/

^ What I chiefly need is hot water for washing and
fresh linen/ said Audrey, laughing. ^ I have been shut
up in one room ever since Monday. Oh, you don't know
what bliss it is to be free once more and to have you to
talk to! '

Before long she was cosily ensconced in an armchair
in Mary's bedroom, telling her all that had happened,
and every detail of the escape, while Mary heated her a
cup of chocolate over a little spirit-lamp, listening very
eagerly to her tale.

^ And how about Michael? ' she said when all was told.
^ I fear he has been sadly troubled about it.'

^ He has, indeed,' said Mary, ^ but we contrived to
keep it from him till yesterday. Then, to my dismay,
who should call upon me but young Mr. Enderby, the
Jacobite, reproaching himself terribly for having, while
visiting Michael, let out the fact of your disappearance.
He is a chatterbox and can never hold his tongue. I
went at once to the Tower and found him in terrible
distress; but don't cry over it, dear heart, for Is not his
trouble happily ended? You shall see him yourself as
soon as we can decently visit him.'

HOPE THE HERMIT 389

'And you^l not expect me ever again to get into a

sedan chair/ said Audrey, laughing through her tears.
'I shall never forget the dreadful, helpless feeling of it.*
'You shall have the family coach,' said Mary, caress-
ing her. ' And we will first visit the Tower, and then
go to see Lady Temple, for she has been sadly anxious
about you. Indeed, dear, all London has been thinking
of you, and her Majesty has herself more than once
inquired whether there was no news yet as to your
whereabouts.'

' I told you,' said Audrey, ' that though the writing
was in some ways unlike Henry Brownrigg's on this
scrap of paper, yet in one or two points it much re-
sembles his; and what the old wagoner said as to the
house confirms my thought that he planned it all. Mill-
beck is the name of the Brownrigg property near Kes-
wick, and I know he has kinsfolk of the name of Mallin-
der. Doubtless he knew this house to be empty and
deserted, and was easily able to use it for a prison for
me.'

^Well, do not let us talk any more just now,' said
Mary, ' but try if you cannot rest for a while in my bed
while I go down and tell my uncle the good news. See,
I will draw the curtains, and after this long night of
axeitement and adventure you will surely sleep.'

Audrey protested, but nevertheless was soon sleeping
soundly, nor did she stir till Mary came to her room at
ten o'clock.

Waking then to find the gentle face and thoughtful
brown eyes of her friend looking down on her, she sud-
denly wreathed her arms about Mary Denham's neck,
kissing her with an almost passionate devotion.

* Oh, how good it is to wake and find you near me
instead of waking in that dreadful room to the sight of
that hard-looking hagl Had it not been for little Tim
I think I should have lost my wits altogether.'

390 HOPE THE HERMIT

*Poor child, yon must indeed have had a terrible
time/ said Mary. ^ Are yon really fit to come now to the
Tower? If so, the coach is at the door and we had
better dress/

Audrey protested that she was fit for anything after
the sleep she had had, and indeed excitement had
brought a lovely glow of colour to her cheeks and had
made her great grey eyes brighter than ever.

Mary, glancing at her as they were taken to Michaers
cell, thought she had never seen a lovelier face, and in
truth there was a new beauty about it, for those anxious
days had developed Audrey, bringing out all that was
strong and noble in her character. It was arranged that
she should linger a little behind on the stairs while
Mary went to give Michael a word of preparation.

He started up eagerly as the door was opened, and she
was grieved to see how wretched and haggard he looked,
evidently having been unable to sleep since Enderby had
brought him the bad news.

' Have you heard anything of her? ' he asked, scarcely
pausing to greet his visitor in his extreme anxiety.

^ Yes, we have,^ she said with a smile. ^ All is well,
and you must brace yourself up to learn good news this
time.'

^ Tell me quickly,' he pleaded. You are sure it is
true, and that she is indeed unharmed? '

' Quite sure. She will tell you all herself; she is h^
now, and only longing to see you.'

With that she summoned Audrey, hardly able to re-
sist a smile when she saw that this couple, who had been
betrothed but a week, were very much more like hus-
band and' wife than any lovers she had yet come across.
Where were the stately forms and ceremonies habit-
ual in those days? Where were the deferential modes
of address? Clearly ^Mic' and Audrey had belonged
to each other in truth ever since their cradle days in

HOPE THE HERMIT 391

Borrowdale. The formal and ill-omened betrothal to
Henry Brownrigg, now happily at an end, had been
but a brief and unhappy interlude, and the Jacobite
plot, which had accomplished nothing else but trouble
and vexation, might at least claim to have had its share
in preventing what must have been a most miserable
marriage.

' Shall you think me very hard-hearted if I carry
Audrey off now to see Lady Temple?^ said Mary when
Michael had heard the story of the last few days.

' Indeed,^ said Audrey, ^ it would be best for you, Mic,
that we should lose no time. Mr. Brownrigg must by
now have learnt of my escape, and we must not let him
frustrate our plans any more.^

' I will not say a word against your going if you will
promise to nm no further risks,^ said Michael. ^You
will be well on your guard now, and Mistress Denham
will, I know, take every care of you.'

' I don't think I shall dare to let her out of my sight,'
said Mary, laughing, ^and I will undertake that she
shall never go out save in the coach and with a lacquey
in attendance.'

They left the prisoner in excellent spirits, and cross-
ing London Bridge with its quaint houses and shops,
drove to Battersea to visit Lady Temple.

They found her just on the point of starting for
Hampton Court, and her motherly reception of them
and the intensity of her relief on finding that Audrey
was safe and unhurt touched them both.

^ There is no time to be lost,' she said in her sweet
yet decided way. ^ You must both come with me now in
my coach and we will, if possible, let the Queen hear
Mistress Badcliffe's tale from her own lips before the
gossips have had time to take the flavour out of it.'

Mary reflected that they were scarcely in court attire,
but she held her peace, knowing that Lady Temple had

393 HOPE THE HERMIT

special privileges owing to her long friendship with the
Queen; and, after all, though her own dress was of the
quietest and Audrey's betrayed tokens of its country
origin, they were going on a matter of great urgency,
and not to any court function.

^ The Queen, moreover, is a true woman, and will be
more interested in Audrey's bonny face and curious
romance than in her garments,' she thought to herself,
glancing to the other side of the coach, where Michael's
fiancie sat lost in a happy dream of how she wa£ about
to rescue him from the grim old Tower where he had
passed through so much.

It was about one o'clock when they reached the stately
palace of Hampton Court. Lady Temple pointed out
to them the turreted portion of the building, from the
flagstaff of which the standard of England floated to
show that the King and Queen were in residence.

* That is the banqueting room,' she said, ^ and until
the State apartments Sir Christopher Wren is building
are finished it is the part of the palace chiefly in
use. Her Majesty's rooms are in what they call the
Water gallery, and the banqueting room communi-
cates with the royal apartments by an underground
passage.'

Lady Temple was expected, and telling her two com-
panions to follow her, they were all ushered through the
corridors and anterooms of the somewhat stiffly arranged
palace to a chamber opening upon the garden, where
they were received by Lady Derby, the Mistress of the
Robes, and an old friend of Lady Temple's.

^ I have ventured to bring with me the young north
country lady that all London is talking of,' said Lady
Temple, presenting Audrey to the countess. ^ She hath
most happily ended our anxieties by contriving a very
brave escape from the place where she had been carried
by the faithless chairmen. I am anxious that her

HOPE THE HERMIT 393

Majesty should learn the tale, if possible, from her own
lips/

^ Her Majesty is in the garden with the King. She
bade me bring you there as soon as you arrived,' said
Lady Derby, glancing with interest at Audrey. ^ You
shall yourself propose to present Mistress Badeliffe, and
meantime she and Mistress Denham will perhaps wait
here while we learn the Queen's pleasure.'

^ That will be an excellent plan,' said Lady Temple.
^ There is, moreover, a petition from Mr. Michael Bad-
cliflfe, which we thought of asking her Majesty to lay
before the King.'

The two ladies went into the garden, talking together,
leaving Mary Denham and Audrey in some trepidation
at the notion of perhaps seeing the King himself.

^ I could wish you were not in black,' said Mary, ^ for
'tis well known that his Majesty cannot endure mourn-
ing garments.'

^ That is unlucky,' said Audrey, ^ but who could have
thought when we started this morning that we should
be at Hampton Court in the afternoon! I am in
black from head to foot, save for the red roses you gave
me.'

^ Ah, to be sure! our roses for the prisoner in the
Tower; that is a happy thought,' said Mary, unpinning
the ones she wore. * I will fasten these in your hat, and
you must wear this white lace handkerchief of mine,
that will lighten the costume a good deal. Now, did
ever two poor ladies come to court so ill prepared? '

Audrey protested against taking the lace and the
flowers, but Mary was too intent on the need of con-
ciliating the King and not offending his well-known
taste to have a thought to spare for her own dress.

^ There! ' she said triumphantly, putting the last pin
into the daintily arranged neckerchief. ^If his Maj-
esty is not content with you now he will be hard to

394 HOPE THE HERMIT

please. I only hope Mr. RadcliflEe^s petition is well
written and easy to decipher.*

^ Oh, yes, Michael's handwriting was ever the clearest
and best,* said \l\a fiancie* ^I have no fears for that,
but much as to my own way of presenting it.*

Before long Lady Derby returned and bade them
come into the garden, as the Queen was anxious to see
the heroine of so strange an adventure; at which saying
Audrey could have found it in her heart to laugh, for it
suddenly struck her that few girls had enjoyed the
privilege of swinging from a rope and leaping into a
tree in the early hours of the morning and being pre-
sented to a Queen in the afternoon.

^ I am indeed something of a novelty,* she thought to
herself with a little smile plajring about her lips. And
then, as they crossed the smooth-shaven lawn, once
Wolsey*s property, and which had been trodden by the
Tudors and the Stuarts, and by Cromwell in the days of
the Commonwealth, she suddenly perceived a little
group of people standing near a fallen tree, the victim
of that September gale which had tried Mistress Mary
Denham so severely on her journey into Cumberland.
It was an elm, but it had served its time and the wood
had become old and decayed. In its place the gardeners
were planting one of King William's favourite ever-
greens, and his Majesty was himself superintending the
work, keenly interested in what was indeed one of his
happiest hobbies.

Audrey could hardly have seen him at a better mo-
ment. When in the previous November Michael had
seen him at Whitehall, he had felt a shock of disap-
pointment, for a state ball always bored the King to
distraction, and he invariably became stiflE, taciturn, and
morose-looking.

This morning he was in excellent spirits, and there
was a delightful simplicity in his whole manner and

\

HOPE THE HERMIT 395

bearing, so that Audrey had to remind herself that this
was indeed the hero of the Boyne, the soldier King,
who was never so happy as in the thickest of the battle.

The Queen, who had been in close converse with him
and with Lady Temple, received the two younger ladies
very graciously, and Audrey was thinking so much of
her betrothed in his dreary cell that she had no time to
remember that this interview was in truth a great ordeal.
She looked into the kindly eyes of the Queen and at the
King^s thoughtful but inscrutable face, and answered
the questions they put to her like a child repeating the
catechism, her big grey eyes a trifle wider open than
usual^ her head raised and a little thrown back, for the
King and Queen were standing on rising ground.

* If only Audrey had on a pinafore she might very
well stand for the picture of a child at school,^ reflected
Mary, amused and surprised by the girl's unconscious
mien. ^Anything more innocently unabashed I never
saw in all my life.^

Meanwhile the King and Queen had asked all about
the events at Borrowdale, and had heard of the manner
in which John Eadcliffe had been killed, and of how
Mr. Brownrigg had fled, as it was thought, to London;
and having previously learned from Lady Temple of the
rivalry between the Under-Sheriff and Michael Ead-
cliffe, they were able to draw their own conclusions.

^ Does Mr. Eadcliffe swear that he knows nothing of
the Jacobite conspiracy?^ said the King, scanning the
girFs face keenly and satisfied with its perfect truthful-
ness of expression.

' He swears, sire, that he knew naught, though he had
heard the rumours current in London during the trial
of Mr. Crone. He also, during his last interview in
London with Mr. Calverley, chanced to see Mr. Enderby
and could not help inferring that he was communicating
with St. Germains, after which he avoided Mr. Calver-

396 HOPE THE HERMIT

ley's society^ nor once met him again until the night in
Borrowdale when, under his true name of John Ead-
cliflfe, he met him in the cave above Lowdore/

' Were you always present during the interviews he
had with Mr. John Eadcliffe?' asked the Queen, ^and
can you recall any names that were mentioned betwixt
them?'

^ I was present each time, your Majesty, save at that
last meeting when they changed clothes on the night
my uncle was killed,' said Audrey. ^ And as to names,
I am sure that none were mentioned. We spoke merely
of the way in which my uncle could escape from the
neighbourhood and take ship at Workington or White-
haven.'

^ That tallies with what Mr. Michael Badclifle said in
answer to the questions put to him on his arrival at the
Tower,' said the Queen. ^ He swore he had never heard
of Nevill Payne, nor of my Lord Annandale, nor Sir
James Montgomery.'

* Yet it is plainly proved that Mr. John Badcliffe was
in their counsels,' said the King thoughtfully. ^ Still,
'tis like enough he held his tongue while he was in Cum-
berland, where I gather he met with no encouragement
even from the Catholics.'

He again relapsed into silence, and once more glanced
through Michael's petition, while Audrey waited with
breathless anxiety, not daring to watch his face while
he read, but looking in a vague way at the figures of
some of the Queen's Dutch ladies as they paced to and
fro under the shade of the fast-thinning elms and the
chestnuts with their golden autumn foliage in what the
English people had lately dubbed ^ Frow Walk.'

^I' faith, 'tis an honest enough petition,' exclaimed
the King at length. ^ It seems to me that Mr. Michael
RadcliflEe hath had hard usage; nor am I inclined to
blame him for the part he played in trying to get his

HOPE THE HERMIT 397

father out of the kingdom. Methinks love of a lady
had more to do with it than polities/

The Qneen laughed merrily, finding in this north
country love-tale a curious relief, for she had been sorely
burdened during the King^s absence with the difficult
task of unravelling the plot concocted by Lord Annan-
dale and his accomplices.

^ Then, sire,* she said, * it were surely the best plan to
hand over the prisoner to a more gentle gaoler than my
Lord Lucas. If, as it seems, love of a lady led Mr.
Michael Badcliffe into this escapade and has kept him
nigh upon three months in durance, let the lady^s love
rescue him, for methinks she has played her part right
bravely, and hath suffered not a little.*

The King smiled one of those rare smiles which,
illumining a sombre and harsh-featured face, seem like
a sudden revelation of the divine in man.

He turned to his Gentleman-Usher, Sir Thomas
Duppa,and bade him fetch writing materials; then, while
the Queen once more questioned Audrey as to her escape
that morning, he became engrossed in the tree-planting,
forgetting for the time all affairs of state, or that such
things as plots and prisoners existed.

Mary Denham had no fears now as to the result of
the interview, and rejoiced in the thought that her
daring suggestion of fetching Audrey from the north
had been justified. With a gleam of quiet humour in
her eyes, she watched the extremely stately way in
which Sir Thomas Duppa crossed the lawn carr3ring the
King's pen, while behind him stepped a page bearing an
inkhom and some paper on a huge silver salver.

But the King's interest in the Cumberland romance
had given place to interest in his tree-planting, and it
was with a preoccupied air that he scrawled hastily on
a sheet of paper the words ^Release Mr. Michael Rod-
cliff e^ and affixed his signature.

398 HOPE THE HERMIT

He bade the Queen also sign the document^ saying
with a smile that^ after all^ she was responsible both for
the committal and the release; but Audrey doubted
whether he even heard the grateful words with which
she received the pardon. He turned abruptly away and
began to talk to the gardeners^ finally walking off with
them to inspect the trees in the recently planted
maze.

^ Now, if Mr. Badcliffe be a wise man/ said the Queen
with A bright, arch look, ^ he will not let the grass grow
under his feet, but will wed you with haste and carry
you safely back to the north country, where sedan
chairs, they tell me, are unknown. He is a lucky man
to have won so brave a lady for his bride.'

And with that kindly little speech ringing in her ears,
Audrey, holding the precious letter for Lord Lucas
safely clasped in her hand, curtseyed low to the Queen
and f ollbwed Lady Temple back to the coach, for it was
agreed that no time should be lost and that the order
for MichaePs release should be at once presented.

When they had left the precincts of Hampton Court
and were rumbling slowly along towards the city, Au-
drey bent forward in the coach and threw her arms
about Mary Denham's neck.

^'Tis your doing,' she said, her eyes full of happy
tears. ^ We shall owe the happiness of all our lives to
you.'

^ Ay,' said Lady Temple, smiling kindly upon them,
*Mary hath ever had a quite unusual talent for the
releasing of prisoners. You are by no means the first
couple who owe her the happiness of their lives. And,
my dear, let me give you a word of motherly coimsel.
Do not forget the Queen's injunction. Delays are dan-
gerous. Have no scruple as to wedding your released
prisoner as soon as may be, and get him safely away from
London. For your grandfather's sake it were better

HOPE THE HERMIT 399

to return witii what speed you may^ and the roads wiU
be ill to travel over as the autumn goes on/

' Indeed/ said Audrey, blushing, ^ if you think there
is indeed nothing nnseemly in euch haste I would far
rather that we were married at once, for I shall never be
at rfet about Michael till all is safely over/

And though no one mentioned Henry Brownrigg^s
name they all three thought of him, fearing greatly
lest the man who had been foiled so many times should
at the last succeed in getting the revenge he eagerly
craved.

CHAPTER XLI

Recollections of Michael DerwenU

Whek I first entered the Tower of London, tired and
heated with the long journey from the north and in
the lowest spirits, I little dreamed that in that gloomy
old fortress the greatest happiness of my life was to come
to me. Yet so it proved, for it was there that I learnt
through that best of friends, Mistress Mary Denham,
that my hope was indeed realised, that the dismal doubt
lest Sir Francis Salkeld's son should win Audrey's
hand was for ever banished, and that I knew at last that
my dear love eared for me and would accept my suit.

Yet even after that day of rapture when with her own
lips she promised to be my wife, there were dark times
of trouble for us.

Enderby, that chattering magpie, whose tongue
seemed fated to work me mischief, nearly sent me off
my head altogether by telling me without the least
preparation the dire news of Audrey^s mysterious dis-
appearance, and had it not been for my dear love's brave
determination to escape at all costs from the house to
which that villain Brownrigg had caused her to be
carried, I don't think I could have borne up against
the torture of having to wait helplessly in my narrow
prison cell, not knowing in the least what was befalling
her.

But when, on a fair September morning, she came
with Mistress Denham to see me, and I found that she

HOPE THE HERMIT 401

was unharmed and had baffled the TJnder-SheriflP, the
sight of her speedily cured me; save that even now —
when no danger threatens us — ^I have a foolish fear
of letting her be away from me, as though the shadow
of that past agony still lurked behind and kept me
more or less its slave; and many a time I have been so
far unmanned as to return in the middle of a day's hunt-
ing, unable to endure the torturing anxiety any longer.

However, this is anticipating, and I must set down,
ere ending these recollections, the account of how, on
that very day when Audrey had safely returned, my
imprisonment was brought to a most happy end. It
was about five o'clock in the afternoon when my Lord
Lucas, attended by some of the guard, came up the stair-
case of the Bloody Tower, and entering my room, with
a civil greeting handed me a paper. I thought it was
to bid me to some sort of examination, since those in
authority were most anxious to find out all that they
could with regard to the Jacobite conspiracy, and on
unfolding the sheet I could hardly believe that I read
aright, for it was nothing less than tfie order for my
release procured by Audrey at Hampton Court and
bearing the signatures of the King and Queen.

' You leave us under happier circumstances than most
inmates of this room have done,' said Lord Lucas with
a smile. ^ 'Twas from here that Colonel Sydney went
to the scaffold; while for you, sir, my Lady Templets
coach waits, and within it the fair lady from the north
country whose story has made so much talk in the town.
Egad! sir, you are a very lucky man, and I swear that
I'm half inclined to envy you.'

He took leave of me very kindly. One of the warders

carried down my possessions, and in a few minutes I

stepped forth from that grim old gateway which I had

entered with such dark forebodings, and was speedily

being driven through the city streets.
26

403 HOPE THE HERMIT I

Lady Temple plied me with questions^ and Mistress j
Denham^ with her kind brown eyes, watched our hap- ^
piness with an air of great content, while Audrey, with
her hand clasped fast in mine, leant back in her comer
of the coach, somewhat pale with the excitement and
fatigue of the day, yet with the look of a happy child in
her^face. It seemed to me that our journey through
life together began in that very hour, nor did I find it
difficult to persuade her to let our marriage take place
as soon as the arrangements could possibly be made.
She answered frankly that every one from the Queen
downward advised it, and that she wbs perfectly willing,
if it could be managed, that the ceremony should, as
far as possible, be a quiet one, with none of the usual i^
merrymaking and publicity.

And so it came to pass that by the time we had
reached Norfolk Street all was settled, and Lady Temple
had promised to be present at the church. I could have
smiled to think how strangely this arrival at Sir WiUiam
Denham^s contrasted with my arrival in the previons
autumn with Sir Wilfrid Lawson. In truth, I had been
a most moody and miserable fellow on that night, when,
in company with Mr. Ambrose Newfold, the chaplain,
I had waited, hungry and sore-hearted, in the little
cheerless room at the back of the house. Now, with
Audrey beside me, and the talk running upon the ar-
rangements for our wedding, how different a place the
world seemed to me! Yet the house was absolutely un-
changed: there was old Thomas, the butler, with his
familiar face, as shrewd and discriminating as ever, and
there were Lady Denham with her kind greeting, and
Sir William sitting over Willoughby on Birds as though
he had never moved since the last time I saw him.

They, one and all, gave me the most cordial of wel-
comes, and when later in the evening Hugo Wham-
cliffe and his wife came in to congratulate us, Mary per-

HOPE THE HERMIT 403

snaded him to sing the song that old Zinogle had taught
him, and in his wonderfully sweet tenor voice he gave
us a rendering of that quaint old hallad of TA^ Prickly
Bush, which had rung in my head all through the time
I had lain in the Tower.

We were married one sunny October morning in the
Church of St. Dunstan, Fleet Street, the very church
where, twenty-three years before, my pretty mother had
plighted her troth to John EadclifiEe. As we passed
out again into the street a strange thing happened. One
of the horses belonging to the Denham coach began to
rear and plunge, so that we were forced to stand for a
minute before getting in. The sun was streaming down
upon us in a flood of golden brightness, and it made
Audrey^s white dress and close-fitting, fur-bordered
bodice glisten like snow mountains on a bright, frosty
day. She had her sunny brown hair dressed high in
the way then fashionable^ and had put on for the first
time one of the white lace mantillas which London
ladies wore in those days on their heads. Now, as we
waited there while they strove to quiet the kicking
horse, who should pass by but an aged, white-haired man
in a suit of brown leather. It was none other than
George Fox, the Quaker, and, to my surprise and pleas-
ure, he at once recognised me.

'I have heard of thy imprisonment and thy many
troubles,^ he said with that glance of the eyes which
meant so much more than a conventional greeting.
^ And right glad am I, friend, to see that joy hath now
been sent to thee. On this very spot long ago I saw thy
mother. God grant thee a happier life; and forget not
this waiting on the threshold my friends, ere going forth
into the world. Just in this fashion should we each
day learn to stand still in the Light ere going forth on
our work.'

And with that he went on, and we saw him no more.

4(H HOPE THE HERMIT

For not many months later the old man^ after the brief-
est of illnesses, passed quietly away, to see face to face
the Light he had so untiringly preached.

* Mic/ said Audrey to me gently as we drove through
Temple Bar, ^ he has just the same heavenly look in his
face as Cousin Nathaniel Badcliffe. We will take that
quaint saying of his, " Stand still in the Light,'' as our
motto/

We had been married on a Saturday, and after a quiet
Sunday in Norfolk Street, we bade farewell to those who
had been so good to us in London, and set ofiE early on
Monday morning by the York coach, having extorted a
promise from Mistress Mary Denham to visit us in the
north some time in the following summer.

^Now, were it any other lady who had made that
promise I should doubt its fulfilment,' said Audrey, ^ but
Mary seems a bom traveller, and I verily believe is never
so happy as when seeing "Fresh fields and pastures
new.'' She will really come and see us at Goldrill
House, and with her, as Lady Temple told me, it is
" Once a friend always a friend." '

* What an extraordinary old gentleman! ' I exclaimed,
drawing her attention to a tall, bent old man in a grey
periwig and an enormous grey cloak which was so ar-
ranged as completely to swathe his throat and mouth.

*I do trust he is not coming inside,' said Audrey.
^ He will take up so much room.'

And we both gave a sigh of relief when the old man
climbed up beside the coachman.

There certainly was something strange about this
gentleman's movements, and he afforded us much
amusement. When the other travellers hastened from
the coach to the inns at which we stopped on the road,
eager to get warmed and fed, this old man of the cloak
never put in an appearance. Whether he fed elsewhere
we coidd not discover, but when we came out again there

HOPE THE HERMIT 405

he was on the box-seat like Patience on a monument^
and as he was extremely deaf and could only hear the
driver^s remarks when they were actually bawled into his
ear, it was impossible to show him any civility, or even
to pass a remark as to the weather or the discomforts
of the journey. We called him the ^ Muffled Mystery/
for none of the passengers seemed to know anything
about him, and when at length we reached York and
repaired to the house of the Denham's friends where
Audrey had rested on her journey to the south, the
* Muffled Mystery * had only just clambered down from
the coach-box, and was slowly counting out coin for
the customary fees to the driver and the guard.

On Sunday we rested at York, then set out for the
rest of the journey on horseback, Audrey riding her
mare Firefly, which had been stabled at York all this
time, and I contenting myself with hiring on the road,
or, as they call it, riding post. We were fortunate
enough to fall in at Eipon with my old school-fellow,
John Williamson, and his brother, so that, with our
grooms, we made a fair cavalcade, and ran less risk of
being attacked by highwaymen. And of this I was
thankfid enough, for when we reached Sichmond they
told us some uncomfortable stories of travellers who had
lately been robbed, and I coidd see that Audrey was
somewhat nervous.

Perhaps on account of this we were all the more deter-
mined to keep up her spirits on the next day's journey,
which chanced to be the worst of the road, betwixt Rich-
mond and Appleby. At any rate we were all extremely
merry, when just as the light was beginning to fade a
little in the afternoon, and we knew that we had not
much further to travel before reaching the town, the
sound of a pistol-shot startled us into sudden silence.

' There's mischief afoot,' said John Williamson as a
second shot was heard. ' Let us press on at a good pace;

4o6 HOPE THE HERMIT

the sigkt of our cavalcade will drive off any highway-
men.'

Audrey was the very first to respond to the suggestion;
when danger actually came she was never afraid^ and
touching up Firefly, she pressed on eagerly, thinking
that perhaps we might help some luckless and solitary
traveller.

And, sure enough, directly we came in sight, a couple
of villainous-looking highwaymen instantly made off at
full speed, but their hapless victim lay face downwards
on the strip of grass by the roadside, nor did he stir at
our approach.

' Oh, Mid ' said Audrey, ' it is the '' Muffled Mys-
tery! '' See, poor old gentleman! there is blood dyeing
his grey peruke.^

We hastily dismounted and bent over the wounded
man. He moaned faintly as we raised him and turned
his face to the light. The thieves had left his rifled
pockets hanging inside out, and had torn off his watch.
The end of his broad watch-ribbon fluttered in the fresh
breeze as though to tell its story.

' Take off his peruke, and let us bathe his temples,'
said John Williamson; but as I obeyed there was a gen-
eral exclamation of surprise and dismay, and looking
more closely at the wounded man, I saw that the
stranger who had passed for an infirm and bent, old
veteran was none other than Henry Brownrigg.

We instinctively knew that no good purpose could
have brought him back to the north, but for the moment
there was nothing to be done save to try to staunch the
blood which was fiowing fast from a wound near the
shoulder. We succeeded at length, but feared that a
more dangerous wound had been caused by the second
shot which had entered the body lower down and must
have caused some bad internal injury, for it was evident
that the Under-Sheriff was dying.

HOPE THE HERMIT 407

* Ride on to Appleby/ I said to the groom, ^ and see if
you can bring with all speed a leech and a litter to carry
him to the inn/

The fellow hastily mounted and rode oflE at a gallop,
while Audrey, who had been fetching water in a little
flask from a stream by the roadside, drew near, and bend-
ing down over the wounded man, began to bathe his
face and to moisten his lips. For a moment, as I re-
membered how the Under-SheriflE had brutally insidted
her, how he had jilted her at the time of her need, and
had tortured her by the cruel trap he had set in London,
I could hardly endure to see her touch him.

But death shames all selfish thoughts, and ere long
I saw that she was only doing what any true woman
would do for one in the last extremity.

The cold water revived the dying man for a time,
and opening his eyes, he looked at us in a furtive,
shrinking way.

' DonH! ^ he gasped, as though the touch of her hands
burnt him. ' I was here for revenge! I made sure of
being able to pick a quarrel with your husband betwixt
York and Penrith and of forcing him at length to fight.
But everything thwarts me! The Williamsons spoiled
all, and now these vile thieves ^

He broke oflE with a groan.

^ They have sorely hurt you, I fear,' said Audrey.
^Yet they have saved you from being a murderer.
Henry, have you no message for your mother? '

He did not reply, but lay with closed eyes as though
thinking over her words. The savage hatred slowly
died out of his face, and seeing how painfully he la-
boured for breath, I lifted him as gently as I could,
which for the time seemed to ease him.

He opened his eyes again and looked at me in a per-
plexed way.

^What! is it you?' he murmured very faintly. ^I

408 HOPE THE HERMIT

wronged you. Let John Williamson tell my mother

that I ^ The words died away into a confused

murmur, and his mind began to wander a little, for
when next he spoke it was to call out passionately:
* These robbers have thwarted me! I^m baulked
again! '

Audrey, with tears streaming down her face, once
more moistened his parched lips, and this seemed to
bring him to himself.

^ You are right,' he murmured. ' They have saved me
from being a murderer.'

John Williamson oflEered to take my place and support
the dying man, but I feared to hurt him by moving,
and indeed it seemed as if every struggling breath must
be the last. We listened eagerly for the sound of horse-
hoofs on the road, longing for the arrival of the leech.
But all was still; only in the distance we could hear the
lowing of cattle, and the cawing of the rooks as they
swept by overhead on their homeward way.

There was nothing more to be done. Audrey knelt
on the grass with her face hidden in her hands, and I
knew that she prayed for the man who had given her
such bitter pain. The rest of us just tvaited, watching
intently the shadow that was creeping over the face of
the Under-SheriflE.

At last I felt a convulsive struggle pass through the
strong frame I supported. He half raised himself with
a last effort.

' My God! ' he gasped. ' Forgive ! '

And with that his head fell back again on my shoul-
der. All was over.

When the leech came from Appleby there was naught
for him to do, save to assure us that we could not possi-
bly have saved Henry Brownrigg's life. The second
pistol-shot had placed him beyond human help, and it
only remained for us now to carry the body to Appleby,

HOPE THE HERMIT 409

and to give evidence before the magistrate there as to
the highwaymen who by this time had, of course, made
good their escape.

The news was carried to Mrs. Brownrigg at Millbeck
Hall by the Williamsons, and the Under-Sheriff's
funeral took place at Crosthwaite five days later.

Audrey was so greatly upset, however, by all she had
been through, that we were forced to spend the next
month with the Aglionbys at Penrith that she might
recover her health before travelling on to Derwentwater.
I was not sorry to have the chance of resting there, for
it enabled me to see something of my grandfather Carle-
ton at Carleton Manor, and his interest in the clearing
up of the mystery as to my birth brought a genuine
gleam of pleasure into the sad life the poor old man
had for so many years led.

Moreover, Penrith was within easy reach of our future
home, and Sir Nicholas wrote to beg me to have all
things put in order there, so that we could, after a brief
stay with him at Lord's Island, settle down comfortably
in a house of our own.

Audrey soon began to take keen interest in the ar-
rangements, and, as soon as great-aunt Aglionby would
allow her to undertake the expedition, we rode dProm
Penrith to Ulles water, and there, the day being fine and
the water journey likely to prove less tiring, took a boat
and sailed to Patterdale.

It was the second anniversary of King William's land-
ing at Tor Bay, and much the same bright autumnal
weather as it had been two years before when we had
taken that ramble in Borrowdale and had found the
miniature.

Mrs. Aglionby had insisted on our bringing a number
of rugs and wraps, and with these I made a warm couch
for Audrey in the boat, and leaving the man to manage
the sail, we lounged luxuriously in the stern, my little

410 HOPE THE HERMIT

wife's head resting comfortably on my shoulder, for she
was wearied with the ride from Penrith.

The wind, though fresh, was not cold, and I never saw
anything more wild and beautiful than the wooded
shore and the rugged mountains which rose majestically
in front of us. At the far end lay Helvellyn and a
peaked mountain which the man told us was called
Catchedecam. The early gales had thinned the trees,
but there were russet leaves still lingering on the oaks,
and crimson touches on the maples, besides a wonderful
blending of every shade of brown and gold on the hills
near Howtown, where the green of the grass only showed
here and there in patches, so thickly did the brake fern
grow.

Just as we passed Growbarrow Park the boatman called
out: ' Look yonder, sir, there are the red deer.*

And glancing round, we saw one of the prettiest sights
we had ever witnessed, for a herd of the beautifid crea-
tures came down the grassy slope to drink, their branch-
ing antlers and dappled coats showing out finely against
the blue of the water.

We seemed to be sailing quietly into a paradise of
beauty, and Audrey's delight, as we passed close under
Stybarrow Crag, with its grey heights rising sheer up
from the water, knew no bounds.

' To tell the truth, Mic,' she said, ^ dearly as I love
Derwentwater, 'tis a great comfort to feel we shall start
afresh where there can be no sad memories. Do you
think people feel like that when they reach the other
world?'

'Perhaps they do,' I said. 'Anyhow, dear heart,
here we will try, as George Fox bade us, to stand still
in the Light.'

The boatman set us down at the extreme end of Ulles-
water in a somewhat marshy field, and a walk of about
half a mile brought us to the Goldrill estate. The place

i HOPE THE HERMIT 411

^ had been untenanted, save by a farm bailiff and his

. sister, since the death of my f ather^s second wife, and it

M was greatly out of repair. But already the carpenters

\ were at work, and a cheerful sound of hammering and

whistling reached us as we walked down the avenue to

the old grey house.

For the first time I realised that I was the heir and
that the place would indeed be my own; and for one
who had eaten the bread of charity for twenty years and
had thought himself lucky to earn an annual salary of
twenty pounds since reaching manhood, the feeling was
strange indeed. Was it all a dream? And should I
wake to find myself back in the pele tower at Isel Hall,
once more Sir Wilfrid Lawson^s private secretary?

I drew my wife's hand more closely within my arm,
and looked down into her sweet face for comfort and
assurance.

We had just passed the side of the house and were
stepping on to the terrace walk near the front windows,
when I saw her pale cheek flush with pleasure, all her
youth and beauty returning in that glow of delight
which thrilled through her as she saw the exquisite
view which greeted us.

^Why, Mic! ^ she cried, 'I feel like the Queen of
Sheba! The half was not told me! You spoke of the
winding stream and the green fields, but you never said
that glorious mountain rose just before our very win-
dows. I have lost my bearings. Can it be Helvell3m? ^

^Indeed, no,' I said, laughing. ^Beautiful as it is,
it rejoices in the unromantic name of Low Hartsop
Dod! '

And at that she laughed right merrily, vowing that
'We ought to christen it afresh. ' Though, after all,' she
added, ^as I used to say to you in old days, Mic, why
trouble about a name? '

^ As I told you then, it makes all the diflEerence some-

412 HOPE THE HERMIT

times betwixt honour and dishonour/ I said, looking
into her sweet grey eyes. ^ Would you have wedded me,
do you think, had I been forced always to remain
Michael Derwent, the Borrowdale foundling? ^

* Mic,^ she said earnestly, ' I would have loved yon
every bit as well and have wedded you, had I understood
my own heart aright. But I was like a child at school
that reckons amiss: all the sum worked out wrong and
had to be sponged off the slate and begun once more.
How happy a thing it is that one is allowed to start
afresh! It hurts me to think that it has meant tears and
grief and trouble to others beside myself, but perhaps
^tis the only way we can learn our lessons.'

As she spoke she clung more closely to me.

I stooped to kiss her, and we stood there together in
the sunlight watching the Goldrill Beck as it wound its
peaceful way through the green pastures.

The robins sang in the mountain-ash trees, making
me think of that dark day when I had waited at the
foot of the Styhead Pass and had had the vision of my
mother; and with the bird's blithe song there rose in
me a confident hope that our lives, once so troubled,
might pass serenely on — quietly serving the land like
that winding stream — until they were merged in the
wider life beyond, when

* Long eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss ;
And joy shall overtake us as a flood.'

'Li-

A Selected List of Fiction

Published by • • • • « «

Longmans, Green, & Co.,

91 and 93 Fifth Avenue, » New York.

BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN.

Each volume illustraied. Crown 8vo, $l.aS.
A Gentleman ok France. The Man jn Bj.ack.
The House of the Wow. N"» ediiian prepnrinK.

Under the Red Robe. From the Memoirs of a

Mv Lady Rotha. Minister of France.

The Story of Francis Cluude.

Shrbwsbukv. wiih 24 lllusiraiians, Decorative Cover. (1
The Red Cockauk, with 48 Illuairaiums, cloth,
$1.50.

BY H. RIDER HAOOARD.

Each volume illu5t»lct). down Svo, $i.3S.

The People of the Mist.

Heart of the World.

Ioan Haste

Dawm.

MoNTEZiiMA's Daughter.

Nadathe Lilv.

Cleopatra.

She. New

The Wizard.

Beatrice.

The World's Desire

Allan Quatermain.

By Andrew Lang.

A Monk of Fife. A Romance of the Days of Jeanne D'Arc.
Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.25.
By A. Conan Doyle.

MiCAH Clarke. Illustrated. lamo, cloth, (i.is.
The Captain of the Polestar, and Other Tales. Illustiaied.
lamo, cloth, ti.s;.

By Edna Lyall.

DoREEN. The Story of a Singer. Crown Svo. cloth, $1.50.
The Autodiography of a Slander. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.00,
The Autobiography of a Truth. Cloih, 50 cents.
Wayfaring Men. Crown Svo, clotb, ti.50.
Hope the Heruit. Ciown Svo, ctoth, fi.so.
By Mrs. Walford.

The Matchmaker. Crown Bvo, buckram cloth, $1.50.
The One Good Gt;EST. i^mo, cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cents.
" Ploughed," and Other Stories. lamo. cloth, $1,00.
IVA KiLDARE, A Matrimonial Problem, Crowa Svo, $1.50.
LedOY MarOET. Crown Svo, buckram, $1.50.

1. Cloth, $1.3$.

$i.oo. I

I 8vo, cloth, $1.00. Xj

Northumberland. J

t&

■It

By Clementina Black.

Princess D^sir^e. A Romance. Illustrated. Cloth, $x.3$.

By Miss L. Dougall.

Beggars All. A Novel. Crown 8vo, cloth,
What Necessity Knows. A Novel. Crown

By P. Anderson Qraham.

The Red Scaur. A Story of Rustic Life in
Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.25.

By May Kendall.

Such is Life. A Novel. Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.00.

By Ida Lemon.

Matthew Furth. A Story of London (East End) Life. $1.25.

By Julia Magruder.

The Violet. Illustrated. Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.25.

By Brander Matthews.

A Family Tree. Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.25 ; paper, 50 cents.

By Henry Seton Merriman.

Flotsam. The Study of a Life. Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.25.

By Mrs. Molesworth.

Uncanny Tales. Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.25.

By Florence Montg^omery.

Colonel Norton. Crown 8vo, buckram cloth, $1.50.

By Mrs. Oliphant. j^

Old Mr. Tredgold. Crown 8vo, cloth. $1.50.

By Mrs. Parr.

Can this be Love? Illustrated. i2mo, cloth, $1.25.

By Medley Peek.

The Chariot of Flesh. Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.25.
By Owen Rhoscomyl.

Battlement and Tower. With Frontispiece. Cloth, $1.25.
The Jewel of Ynys Galon. With 12 full-page Illustrations

by Lancelot Speed. Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.25.
The White Rose of Arno. Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.25.

By Charles Rokeby.

Dorcas Hobday. A Novel. Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.25.

By S. Levett Yeats.

The Chevalier d'Auriac. Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.25.

By Fred Whishaw.

A Boyar of the Terrible. A Romance of the Court of Ivan
the Cruel. First Tsar of Russia. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25.
A Tsar's Gratitude. Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.25.

By Mrs. Woods. f

Weeping Ferry. Crown 8vo, buckram cloth, $1.50.

t.!^'

\

SHREWSBURY.

m

^ ik ROMANCE OF THE TIME OF WILLIAM AND MARY.

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN,

"^HOR OP "a gentleman OP PRANCE," "UNDER THE RED ROBE," *'THB HOUSE OP THE

WOLP, "MY LADY ROTHA, ETC.

Ith 24 Illustrations by Claude A. Shepperson. Crown 8vo«

Olpth, ornamental, $ 1 .60.

" Mr. Stanley Weyman has written a rattling good romantic story that is in every way
rthy of the author of the ever-delightful ' Gentleman of France.' "—New York Sun.

" Considered as Active literature, the novel is an achievement worthv of high . . .
tise. The characters are projected with admirable distinctness: the whole story and its
idents arc well imagined and described : the reader, while he cannot repress his contempt
the supposed narrator, is always interested in the story, and there is an abundimce of
iniatic action. Mr. Weyman has caught the spirit of the narrative style of the ^riod
H&out endeavoring, evidently, to adhere to the vocabulary and diction, or peculiarities of
itax. . . . Again we see that Mr. Weyman has no superior among living writers of
huuice." — Philadelphia Pkbss.

•* Turning aside from mediaeval French scenes, Stanley J. Weyman takes up in * Shrew-s-

f * an Ejiglish theme, and he weaves from the warp and woof of history and fancy a vivid,

lue, close-textured and enthralling romance. . . . Mr. Weyman has produced in

irewsburv ' a novel that all admirers of his former books will be eager to read, and that

win for nim new suffrages. The illustrations are drawn with skill and appreciation.*'

— Beacon, Boston.

" ' Shrewsbury* is a magnificent confirmation of Mr. Weyman's high estate In the world
fiction.

Again he has proved in this, his latest novel, that the romantic treatment is capable,
ider a masterly hand, of uniting the thrill of imagination with the dignity of real life. His

rcters are alive, human, unforgetable. His scenes are unhackneyed, dramatic, power-
The action is sustained and consistent, sweeping one's interest along irresistibly to a
wuefmntsit once logical and climactic. And through it all there glows that literary charm
uch makes his stories live even as those of Scott and Dumas live. ...

The whole novel is a work of genuine literary art, fully confirming the prediction that
ken the author of *A Gentleman of France* once began to deal with the historical materials
' his own country he would clinch his title to be ranked among the greatest of romantic
titers." — Chicago Tribune.

"Aside from the stonr, which is remarkably well told, this book is of value for its fine
9r pictures of William of Orange and his leadmg courtiers— a storj' of absorbing interest,
«t It difiTers materially from any of his other works. The best thing in the book is the
Ketch of Ferguson, the spy, and of the remarkable hold which he obtained over prominent
i«n by means of his cunnmg and his malignancy. He dominates every scene in which he
E>pears. Some of these scenes have rarely been excelled in historical fiction for intensity of
^merest. Those who have not read it, and who are fond of the romance of adventure, will
(^ it fulfils Mr. Balfour's recent definition of the ideal novel— something which makes us
^iget for the time all worry and care, and transports us to another and more picturesque age."

— San Francisco Chronicle.

" A most readable and entertaining story. . . . Ferguson and Smith, the plotters,
•« mothers of the duke and Mary the courageous, who became the wife of Price, all seem
s*y real, and with the other characters and the adventures which they go throuarh make up
^ mterest-holdmg book which can be honestly recommended to every reader of fiction."

— Boston Times.

" A romance written in the author's best vein. The character drawing is particukrly
^u-able, and Richard Price, Ferguson, King WUHam and Brown standout in strong relief
l^with the most expressive vitality. The story is also interesting and contains many
^g scen^, and one follows the adventures of the various characters with unabated in-
!>cst from first page to last."— Evening Gazette, Boston.

iOHOMANS, QBEEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., HEW TOEK.

THE RED COCKADE.

A NOVEL OP THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN.

MJTHOlt OF "a CatNTLKMAN OP PRANCE," " UNDER THE RED ROBB," " THB HOUSE

THE WOLF," " MY LADY ROTHA," ETC

I

I

With 48 Illustrations by R. Caton Woodvllle. Crown 8v»

Cloth, ornamental, $ 1 .60.

** Deserves a place among the best historical fiction of the latter part of this century. «i
. . The gradual maddening of the people by agitators, the rising of those who have m
venges to feed, the burnings and the outrages are described in a masterly way. The attaS
on the castle of St. Alais, the hideous death of the steward, the looting of the great buildii^
and the escape of the jroung lovers — these incidents are told in that breathless way whic
Wejrman has made familiar m other stories. It is only when one has finished the book aM
has gone back to reread certain passages that the dramatic power and the sustained passiqi
of these scenes are clearly felt." — San Francisco Chronicle.

" 'The Red Cockade,' a story of the French Revolution, shows, in the first place, car*
ful study wad deliberate, well-directed effort. Mr. Wejrman . . . has caught the spix
of the times. . . . The book b brimful of romantic incidents. It absorbs one's inten^
from the first page to the last ; it depicts human character with truth, and it causes the go^
and brave to triumph. In a word, it is real romance." — Syracuse Post.

" We have in this novel a powerful but not an exaggerated study of the spirit of the hi||
bom and the low bom which centtuies of aristocratic tyranny and democratic suffering em
^ndered in France. It is history which we read here, and not romance, but history wbici
IS so perfectly written, so veritable, that it blends with the romantic associations in whicfajf'
b set as naturally^ as the history in Shakespeare's plays blends with the poetry which vii
izes and glorifies it." — Mail and Express, New York.

" It will be scarcely more than its due to say that this will always rank among Weymi
best work. In the troublous times of 1789 in France its action b laid, and Mrith marve"'
dull the author has delineated the most striking types of men and women who made the i
olution so terrible." — New York World.

" * The Red Cockade' b a novel of events, instinct with the spirit of the eighteenth (
tury and full of stirring romance. The tragic period of the French Revolution forms a fn
in which to set the adventures of Adrien du Pont, Vicomte de Saux, and the part he pli
in those days of peril has a full measure of dramatic interest. . . .^ Mr. Weyman '
evidently studied the history of the revolution with a profound realization of its bt*
tragedy."— Detroit Free Press.

" The action of the story b rapid and powerful The Vicomte's stmggle with his
prejudices, his unhappy position in regard to his friends, the perib he encounters, and
great bravery he shows in his devotion to Denise are strikingly set forth, while the histon
background is made vivid and convincing— the frenty caused by the fall of the Bastile,
attacks of the mob, the defence and strategy of the nobility, all being described with d
matic skill and verisimilitude. It is a fascinatmg and absorbing tale, which carries the read
with it, and impresses itself upon the mind as only a novel of unusual merit and po«
can do." — Boston Beacon.

"The story gives a view of the times which b apart from the usual, and marked withj
fine study of history and of human conditions and impulse on Mr. Weyman s Mrt. Regm
ing his varied and weU-chosen characters one cares only to say that Uiey are fuU of into
and admirably portrayed. . . . It is one of the most spirited stones of the hour, and'
of the most delightfully freighted with suggestion."— Chicago Interior.

"With so striking a character for his hero, it b not wonderful that Mr. Weyman
evolved a story that for ingenuity of plot and felicity of treattnent is equaJ to some ot
best efforts. ... * The Red Cockade ' b one of the unmistakably strong histoncal
mances of the season." — Boston Herald.

" We are greatly mbtaken if the * Red Cockade * does not take rank with the v«
best book that Mr. Weyman has written."— Scotsman.

LOHaMANS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH ATE, HEW JOSL

A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE.

Belnff the Memoirs of Gaston de Bonne.
Sleur de Marsac.

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN.

AUTHOR OF "THS HOUSE OF THB WOLF,** ETC.

With Frontispiece and Viffnette by H. J. Ford.
12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

''One of the best novels since *Lorna Doone.* It will be read and then re-read for tfM
pleasure its reading gives. The subtle charm of it is not in merely iransporting the
eteenth-«entury reader to the sixteenth, that he may see hfe as it was then. Imt in trans*
ing him into a sixtec nth-century man, thinking its thoujghts, and living its life in perfeot
b and sympathy ... it carries the reader out of his prci^ent life, giving him a new
totally different existence tliat rests and refreshes him.** — N. Y. World.

** No novelist outside of France has displayed a more definite comprehension of the very
ence of mediaeval French life, and no one, certainly, lias been able to set forth a depiction
it in colors so vivid and so entirely in consonance with the truth. . . . I'he characters

ithe tale are admirably drawn, and the narrative is nothing less than fascinating in its fine

Kvor of adventure." — Bkacon. Boston.

"We hardly know whether to call this latest work of Stanley J. Weyraan a historical
oce or a story of adventure. It has all the interesting, fascinating and thrilling charao-
jcs o* b >th. The scene is in France, and the time is that fateful evcntlul one which
dminated in Htrniy of Navarre becoming king.^ Naturally it isn story of plots and intrigue,
fdanger and of the grand passion, abounding: in intense dramatic scenes ami most interest-
"1 situations. It is a romance which will rank among the masterpioes ot historic fictioa.*'

— AOVBRTISBR, BotTOM*

' A romance after the style of Dumas die dder, and wdl worthy of being read by dmst

'can enjoy stirring adventures told in true romantic fashion. . . . The great person*

i of the time — Henry III. of^ Valois, Henry iV., Rosny, Rambouillet, Turenne-Hire

liiight in skillfully, ancl the tragic and varied history of the time forms a splendid frame in

"ch to set the picture of Marsac^s love and courage . . . the troublous days are well

^ibed and the interest is genuine and lasting, for up to the very end the author manages
cts which impel the reader to go on with renewed curiosity. '—Thb NAiioif.

J*^

A K' nuine and admirable piece of work. . . . The reader will not turn many pages

^ _ he finds himself in the grasp of a writer who holds his attention to the very fast mo*

T^'it of the story. The spirit ofadventure pervades the whole from be^innine to end. . • .

It may be said that the narration is a delightful love story. The interest of the reader

instantly excited by the development of unexpected turns in the relation of the principal

"^rs. I'he romance lies asainst a^ background of history truly p.'iinted. . . • The

diptions of the court life of the period and of the factional strifes, divisions, hatreds of thf

« are fine. • . . This story of those times is worthy of a very high place among histori*

dovels of recent years.'*— Pubuc Opinion,

•• Bold, strong, dashing, it is one of the best we have read for many years. We sat down
*" 9 cursory perusal, and ended by reading it delightedly through. . . . Mr. Weyman
M much ol the yipor and rush of incident of Dr. Conan Doyle, and this book ranks worthily
^de • The White Company.* . , . We very cordially recommend this book to the jaded
•V«l reader who cares for manly actions more than for morbid introspection.*'

— ^The Churchman.

with the
there

, d theT

■^ many, Marsac acts as befits his epoch and his own modest yet gallant personality. Welfr
^Qwii historical figures emerge in telling fashion under Mr. Weyman's discriminating and
^*cinating touch.** — Athrn^um.

*' I cannot fancy any reader, old or young, not sharing with doughty Crillon his admiratioB
^ M. de Marsac, who, though no swashbuckler, ha;; a sword that leaps from its scabbu'd at the
*^th of insult. . . . There are several historical personages in the novel ; there is, ol
^Mrse, a heroine, of great beauty and enterprise ; but that true ' Gentleman of France,'
^« dr Marsac, with hu perseverance and vaior, dominates them all."

— Mr. Jambs Payn in the Illustrated London News.

lOITGMAirS, SEEM, & 00., 91-98 PIPTH AVE., BE¥ TOEEL

MY LADY ROTHA.

A ROMANCE OF THE THIRTY YEARS' WAR.

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN.

autmok or **a gbntleman of france," " undbk tmb rbd kobe,"

*'tiik house of the wolf."

With Elffht Illustrations. Crown 8vo, $1.25. '^

** Few writers of fiction who hare appeared in England in the last decade have
tfieir readers more satisfaction than Mr. Stanley 1. Weyman, and no single writer
Bumhor can be said to have approached him, nmcn less tu have equaled him in die r(
world of the historical novel \. . . he has the art of story-telling in the highest d
tbe art which instinctively divines the secret, the soul of the story which he tells, ani
rarer art. if it be not the artlessness, which makes it as real and as inevitable as life i
His characters are alive, human, unforgetable, re>emblini; in this <vspect diose of Thack
in historical lines and in a measure those of Dumas, with whom, and not inapUy, Mr. V
man has been compared. His literature is good, so good that we accept it as a nutter
course, as we do that of Thackeray and Soott. . . . Mr. Weyman^s historical n
will live.'*— Nrw YcntK Mail and ExntEss.

** . . • differs signally from Mr. Weyman^s earlier published works. It is
with the minuteness and lovini^ness of a first story which has grown up in the mind of
author for years. . . . Marie Wort is one of the bravest souls that ever moved qm
atong the pages of a novel. She is so unlike the other feminine characters ^ hom Weyi
has drawn that the difference is^ striking and adds significance to this one book. . . |-
* My Lady Rotha ' is full of fascinating interest, all the more remarkable in a work adheri^Lc
so stricdy to historical truth.** — Evening Post, Chicago. y^

*' This last book of his is brimful of action, rushing forwau-d with a roar, leaving
reader breathless at the close ; for if once begtjn there is no stopping place. The cone
tion is unique and striking, and the culmination unexpected, llie author is so saturat
with the spirit of the times of which he writes, that he merges his personality in that of i
supposititious narrator, and the virtues and failings of his men and women are set forth m i
fashion which is captivating from its very simplicity. It is one of his best novels.**

— Public Opiniok.

** Readers of Mr. Wey man*s novels will h ave no hesitation ui pronouncing his just
lished * My Lady Rotha ' in every way his greatest and most artistic production,
know of nothing mote fit. both in conception and execution, to be classed with the imm
Waverieys than this his latest work. ... A story true to life and true to the tiin«9
which Mr. Weyman has made such a careful study.** —The Advertisrk, Boston.

** No one of Mr. Weyman's books is better than * My Lady Rotha * unless it be ' Uadetf
the Red Robe/ and those who have learned to like his stories of the old days when mighiS
made right will appreciate it thoroughly. It is a good book to read and read again.'*

—New York World.

'* . . . As good a tale of adventure as any one need ask ; the picture of those warr
like times is an excellent one, full of hfe and color, the blare of tinimpets and the fladi o*
stee) 'and toward the close the description of the besieged city of Nuremberg and of tk^
batde under Wallenstein*s entrenchments is masterly.** — Boston Travellbk.

^ "The loveliest and most admirable character in the story is that of a young Catholic girl*
while in painting the cruelties and savage barbarities of war at that period the brush is heUl
by an impartial hand. Books of adventure and romance are apt to be dieap and sensatioaaL i
Mr. Weyman*s stories are worth tons of such stuflf. They are thrilling, exciting, absorbing^ ]
interesting, and yet clear, strong, and healthy in tone, written by a gentleman and a man 9
sense and taste.'* — Sacred Heart Review, Boston.

*' Mr. Weyman has outdone himself in this remarkable book. . . . The whole storf,
l» told with consummate skill. The plot is artistically devised and enrolled before the lea^ Z.
er^s eyes. The language is simple and apt, and the descriptions are jsr.iphic and terse. TIm5
charm of the story takes hold ot the reader on the very first page, and holds him mdi-hoaaiy
tothe very end.**— New Orleans Picayune. *

lOVGXABB, QtSEM, k 00« 91-93 FUTH ATB^ lEW TORE.

UNDER THE RED ROBE.

A ROMANCE.

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN,

TROR OF "a GBNTLBHAN OF FRANCB," " THS HOUSB OF THB WOLF.** BTC

ith 1 2 PulUpacre Illustrations by R. Caton Woodvllle.
1 2mo, Linen Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

Mr. Weyman is a brave writer, who imagines fine tilings and describes them
lidly. There is something to interest a healthy mind on every page of his new
Its interest never flags, for his resource is rich, and it is, moreover, the kind oif
y that one cannot plaitily see the end of from Chapter I. . . . the story reveals
wledge of French character and French landscape that was surely never ac-
1 at second hand. The beginning is wonderfully interesting."— New York Times.

As perfect a novel of the new school of fiction as ' Ivanhoe ' or ' Henry Esmond '
f theirs. Each later story has shown a marked advance in strength and treat-
and in the last Mr. Weyman . . . demonstrates that he has no superior
g living novelists. . . . There are but two characters in the story— his art
s all other but unnoticed shadows cast by them— and the attention is so keenly
upon one or both, from the first word to the last, that we live in their thought*
ee the drama unfolded through their eyes."— N. Y. World.

It was bold to take Richelieu and his time as a subject and thus to challenge com-
m with Dumas's immortal musketeers * but the result justifies the boldness. . . .
»lot is admirably clear and strong, the diction singularly concise and telling, and
irring events are so managed as not to degenerate into sensationalism. Few
' novels of adventure than this have ever been written." — Outlook, New York.

A wonderfully brilliant and thrilling romance. . . . Mr. Weyman has a positive
for concise dramatic narration. Every phrase tells, and trie characters stano
ith life-like distinctness. Some of the most fascinating epochs in French history
been splendidly illuminated by his novels, which are to be reckoned among the
le successes of later nineteenth-century fiction. This story of Under the Red
' is in its way one of the very best things he has done. It is illustrated with
and appropriateness from twelve full-page designs by R. Caton Woodvllle."

—Boston Beacon.

It is a skillfully drawn picture of the times, drawn in simple and transparent
sh, and quivering with tense human feeling from the first word to the last. It is
book that can be laid down at the middle of it. The reader once caught in its
can no more escape from it than a ship from the maelstrom."

—Picayune, New Orleans.

The 'red robe' refers to Cardinal Richelieu, in whose day the story is laid,
lescriptions of his court, his jud'cial machinations and ministrations, his partial
t, stand out from the book as vivid as flame against a background of snow. For
est, the book is clever and interesting, and overflowing with heroic incident.
•y Weyman is an author who has apparently come to stay." — Chicago Post.

In this story Mr. Weyman returns to the scene of his ' Gentleman of France,*
igh his new heroes are of different mould. The book is full of adventure and
cterized by a deeper study of character than its predecessor."

—Washington Post.

Mr. Weyman has quite topped his first success. . . . The author artfully
es the line on which his happy initial venture was laid. We have in Berault, the
a more impressive Marsac ; an accomplished duelist, telling the tale of his own
itures, he nrst repels and finally attracts us. He is at once the tool of Richelieu,
man of honor. Here is a noteworthy romance, full of thrilling incident set down
naster-hand."— Philadelphia Press.

iraXASS, GSEEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AYE., ITEW TOBS.

THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE.

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN.

AUTHOK or "a gentleman OF FRANCE/' "UNDER THE RED ROBB/* "THB HOUSE OF

THE WOLF," "my LADY ROTHA," ETC

With Four Illustrations. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

" A deUghtfuUy told and exciting tale of the troublesome times of Bloody Mary in Eng
land, and the hero — every inch a hero — was an important actor in them."

— New Orleans Picayune.

" It u a highly exciting tale from beginning to end, and very well told."

— New York Herald.

" One of the best historical noveb that we have read for some time. . . . It is a
story of the time of Queen Mary, and is possessed of great dramatic power. ... In char-
acter-drawing the story is unexcelled, and the reader will follow the remarkable adventures
of the three fugitives with the most intense interest, which end with the happy change on
the accession of Elizabeth to the throne." — Home Journal, Boston.

" The book presents a sood historical pen-picture of the mcKst stirring period of English
civilization, and graphical^ describes scenes and incidents which undoubtedly happened.
The s^le is plain, and the nook well worthy of careful perusal.

" Humor and pathos are in the pages, and many highly dramatic scenes are described
with the ability of a master hand."— Item, Philadelphia.

** Is worthy of careful reading; it is a unique, powerful, and very interesting story, the
scene of which is laid alternately m England, the Netherlands, and the Rhenish Palatinate ;
the times are those of Bloody Mary. Bishop Gardiner plays a leading part in this romance,
which presents in good shape the manners and customs of the period.'

— Buffalo Commekcl\l

" A romance of the olden days, full of fire and life, with touches here and there of love
and politics. . . . We have in this book a genuine romance of Old England, in which
soldiers, chancellors, dukes, priests, and high-bom dames figure. The time is the period of
the war with Spain. Knightly deeds abound. The story will more than interest the reader:
it will charm him, and he will scan the notices of forthcoming books for another novel by
Weyman." — Public Opinion, New York.

" Its humor, its faithful observance of the old English style of writing, and its careful
adherence to historic events and localities, will recommend it to all who are fond of historic
novels. The scenes are laid in England and in the Netherlands in the last four years of
Queen Mary's life." -Literary World, Boston.

" Is distinguished by an uncommon display of the inventive faculty, a Dumas-like ingenu-
ity in contriving dangerous situations, and an enviable facility for extricating the persecuted
hero from the very jaws of destiuction. Th» scene is laid alternately in England, the Neth-
erlands, and the Khenish Palatinate : the times are those of Bloody Mary. Bishop Gardiner
plays a leading part in this romance, which presents in good shape the manners and customs
of the period. It is useless dividing the story into arbitrary chapters, for they will not serve
to prevent the reader from * devouring ' the * Story ot Francis Cludde,* from the stormy
beginning to its peaceful end in the manor-house at Coton End."

, — Public Ledger, Philadelphia.

^ " This is certainly a commendable story, being full of interest and told with great
spirit. . . . It is a capital book for the young, and even the less hardened nerves of the
middle-aged will find here no superfluity of gore or brutality to mar their pleasure in s
bright and clean tale of prowess and adventure. — N.\tion, New York.

" A well-told tale, with few, if any, anachronisms, and a credit to the clever talent of
Stanley J. Weyman." — Springfield Repubucan.

'* It is undeniably the best volume which Mr. Weyman has given us, both in literaiy
style and unceasing interest." — Yale Literary Magazine.

LOITGHAirS, aSEEH, k 00., 91-93 FUTH ATE., NEW TOSL

FROM THE MEMOIRS
OF A MINISTER OF FRANCE.

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN,

AITTHOR OP "A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE," " UNDER THE RED ROBE," ETC., ETC

With 36 Illustrations, of which 1 5 are full-pacre.
12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

" A collection of twslve tales, each one of which is to be classed as a masterpiece,
so subtle and strong is it in the revelation of character, so impressive its portrayal
of the times and the scenes with which it deals. . . . Mr. Weyman has produced
a really brilliant book, one that will appeal alike to the lovers of literature, of adven-
ture, and to those who demand in fiction the higher intellectual quality. . . . The
cluinces are that those who take it up will not put it down again with a page or even
aline unread." — Boston Beacon.

" To read these merry tales of adventure and to lose all sense, for the moment,
of life's complexities, is a refreshment ; it is to drink again at the pure spring of
romance. . . . Weyman . . . has caught more of tne inner spirit of sixteenth
century life than any romancer since Scott." — Orbgonian, Portland, Orb.

" These briefer tales have all the charm and attractiveness that attach to their
author's longer romances, and many of the leading characters of the latter figure in
them. He catches the attention of the reader at the very outset and holds it to the end ;
while his skill as a story-teller is so great that his characters become real beings to us,
and the scenes which he describes seem actual and present occurrences as he narrates
them."— Sacred Heart Review, Boston.

THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF

A ROMANCE.
By STANLEY J. WEYMAN,

AUTHOR OP ** A GENTLEMAN OP PRANCB," BTC.

With Frontispiece and Vignette by Charles Kerr.
12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

" A deliehtful volume . . . one of the brightest, briskest tales I have met with for a
long time. Dealing with the Eve of St. Bartholomew it portrays that night of horror from a
point entirely new, and, we may add, relieves the gloom by many a flash and gleam of sun-
shine. Best of all is the conception of the Vidlme. His character alone would make the
book live."— Critic, N. Y.

*' Recounted as by an eye witness in a forceful way with a rapid and graphic style that
commands interest and admiration.

Of the half dozen stories of St. Bartholomew's Eve which we have read this ranks first
in vividness, delicacy of perception, reserve power, and high principle."

— Christian Union, N. Y.

** A romance which, although short, deserves a place in literature along side of Charles
Readers * Cloister and the Hearth.' . . . We have given Mr. Weyman's book not only
a thorough reading with great interest, but also a more than usual amount of space because
we consider it one of the best examples in recent fiction of how thrilling and even bloody
adventures and scenes may be described in a style that is graphic and true to detail, and yet
delicate, quaint, and free from all coarseness and brutality."

—Commercial Aovkrtiser, N. Y.

LOMHAirS, GBEEIT. k 00., 91-93 FIFTH AYE., NEW TOBE.

A MONK OF FIFE.

A ROMANCE OP THE DAYS OP JEANNE D'ARC.
Done into English from the manuscript in the Scots College of Ratisbon I

By ANDREW LANG. I

With Frontispiece. 12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

I

" Granting that Norman Leslie was no myth, and was truly admonished by his
superior to set down these facts in writing, and with all reverence for this clever monk,
who kept such an excellent account of the exciting scenes be witnessed in his youth,
we must believe that the delightful charm which pervades this quaintly pathetic tale
is due to no one as much as to Mr. Lang. The Maid of Orleans takes a clearer,
sweeter identitv for bis telling, and the reader must insist upon feeling indebted to
this incomparable writer for one of the most beautiful and touching romances given
to the world for many a long day."— Chicago Evening Post.

" Mr. Lang's portrait of the Maid is a beautiful one. He does not ethereallK
her unduly— indeed he rather insists on her most human characteristics ; and his
tortrait gains in lifelikeness from the skill with which he has woven into the story of
ler career as an inspired prophet and leader, little incidents showuig her as thesitnpl^
hearted girl. The nero is supposed to be one of her body-guard, and his sweetheart
one of her near friends. Although the Maid is really the central figure, the story d
the lovers and the dangers of the hero and the heroine is so skillfully woven inlliat
the book is nothing like a history of France at the time, but is a real romance; and
because it is a real romance lets us into the spirit of the time better than any history
that ever was or could be written. It is dangerous to prophesy just after the reading
of any novel, but it seems to us that this is one of the novels that ought tolive, at
least for a generation or two."— Colorado Springs Gazktte.

" A very charming tale of the days of Joan of Arc, his leading characters beini
chosen from the band of Scotchmen who went to France and participated in thi
stirring campaign under the leadership of the Maid of Orleans which rescued Franc
from tne English. The many readers and students who are just now attracted by thi
revival of interest in the character and achievements of Jeanne D'Arc should by ^
means read Mr. Lang's romance."— Review of Reviews, N. Y.

*' The stor>' is admirably told in a style which reminds one of Stevenson's be
work in historical fiction."— Boston Traveler.

" A brilliant, vivid, dramatic, and historically consistent depiction of the careen
that wonderful maiden Joan of Arc is presented by Andrew Lang in his skillful!
wrought, close-textured, and adventurous romance called 'A Monk of Fife.' . . .
has from beginning to end a lifelike coloring that the sympathetic reader will fin
nothing less than enthralling." — Boston Beacon.

" Mr. Lang has made a most pleasing and readable romance, full of love ar
fighting adventures and excitin;^ episodes. There is a quaintiiess about the recital
keeping with the period and which is an added charm. The story of Joan of Arc h
been many times told, but never any more interestingly than in this book."

—Boston Times.

" A delightful romance. . . . Mr. Lang has made admirable use of his matcri
and has given us a quaint and stirring tale that is well worth reading."

—Brooklyn Eagle.

*' A picture, rich in detail, of the days of the Maid of Orleans ; and it is abundant
clear that the picture is drawn by one who knows the period, not only in its di
prosaic sequence of battles and marches, but in the spirit and the speech of the tin
... a love story hardly less graceful and delicate than'that of Aucassin and Nic
lete ; . . . the book will be well worth reading as pure romance, by turns idyll
and epic, and that it has as well a distinct value from its careful presentation of
period so confusing to the novice in history."— Critic, N. Y.

LONGMANS, GKEEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW TOM

r

HEART OF THE WORLD.

A STORY OP MEXICAN ADVENTURE.

By H. rider haggard,

AtrrifOK OW **SHB,** ''MONTBZUMA^t DAUGHTBII,*' *'tNB VMOfUl OF TNB MIST,** BTC*

With 1 3 f ull-pacre Illustrations by Amy Sawyer
12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

** The adTentures of Ignatio and his white friend will compare for strangeneu with any
tnat the writer has ima^Ded. And the invention of the city and people of the heart, of the
Mcret order, with its ntual and history, and the unforeseen crisis of the tale* shows that the
Quality that most distinguishes the author's former works is still his in abundance. . . •
The tale as a whole is so effective that we willingly overlook its improbability, and so novel
that even those who have read all of Rider Haggsurd*s former works will still find something
wrprising m this.**— Thb Critic.

f ** Here are strange adventures and wonderful heroism^ The scene is laid in Mexico.
S The story rehearses the adventures of an athletic Englishman who loves and weds an
4 Indian princess. There are marvekms descriptions of the * City of the Heart»* a roysteri-
. OQs town hemmed in by swamps and unknown mountains.**

— Commercial Advertisbr, New York.

" Has a rare fascination, and in using that theme Mr. Haggard has not only hit upon
I story of peculiar charm, but he has also wrought out a story original and dtlightful to
even tlie most jaded reader of the novel of incident.*' — AxxvEKTiSERt Boston.

" It is a fascinating tale, and the reader will not want to put the book down till he has
read the last word.** — Picavunb, New Orleans.

" The lovers of Rider Haggard's glowing works have no reason to complain of his latest
book. . • * The story is, all in all, one of the most entertaining of the author's whola
Kst.** — ^Travbllbr, Boston.

" In its splendor of description, weirdness of imagery, its astonishing variety of detail,
tnd the love story which blends with history and fantasy, the book without doubt is a
Creation distinct from previous tales. Maya, the Lady of the Heart, is an ideal character.

• . . Interest is sustained throughout.** — Post, Chicago.

"The success of Mr. Haggard's stories consists in the spirit of adventure which runs
through them, in their rapid succession of incidents, in the bustle which animates their
Characters, and in the trying situations in which they are placed. ... this last story

• . . introduces his readers ... to a comparatively new field of fiction in the evohi-
tion of an anaient Aztec tradition concerning the concealed existence of a wonderful Golden
City. . . .**— Mail and Express, New York.

*' A thrillinff story of adventure in Mexico. It is doubtful it he has surpassed in vivid
coloring his dcfineatkm of the character of * Maya.* This work is really a nouble addition
to the great body of romance with which his name is associated.** — Press, Philadblpkia.

" This romance is really one of the best he has given us.**— Times, Philadelphia.

" When the love of romance shall die in the human heart we may bid farewell to all that
is best in fiction. . . . In this story we have the same reckless dash of imagination and
the same goiveous profusion of barbaric scenes and startling adventure which have always
characterized Mr. Haggard's works.** — Independent, Npw York.

** His latest, and one of his most powerful stories. It shows the same trenchant, effective
way .of dealing with his story ; and the same power in open, startling situations. It win

as well as of the more mod*

;ivc the reader some new idea of that ancient people, the Aztecs,
am Mexicans. It is as strong as * King Solomon*s Mines.* '* — T

iMEs, Hartford.

LONOMAirS, GBEEH, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., ITEW TOBE.

THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST,

By H. rider haggard,

AUraOK OF " SHI,** " ALLAN QUATBRMAIN/' " MONTBZUMA's DAUOrCTSlt/' BTC, KTC

With Id full-pacre Illustrations by Arthur Layard. Crown

8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1.25.

" Oot of Africa, as all men know, the thing that is new is ever forthcomine. The ol/
style is tme with regard to Mr. Haggard's roautnces, and everybody concerned u to be con
gratnlated upon the romancer's return to the magical country where lies the land of Kor.

the Story-teller's art, must be reckoned of the excellent company of ' King Solomon's
Mines ' and its brethren. We read it at one spell, as it were, hardly resisting that effect of
fascination which invites you, at the critical moments of the story, to plunee ahead at i
venture to know what is coming, and be resolved as to some harrowing doubt of dilemma.
There is no better test of the power of a story than this. . . ."—Saturday Review.

" The lawyer, the physician, the business man, the teacher, find in these novels, teem
ing with life and incident, precisely the medicine to rest tired brains and ' to take them out oi
themselves.' There is, perhaps, no writer of this present time whose works are read more
generally and with keener pleasure. The mincing words, the tedious conversations, the
prolonged agony of didactic discussion, characteristic of the ordinary novel of the time, find
no place in ue crisp, bright, vigorous pa^es of Mr. Haggard's books. . . . ' The People
of tne Mist ' is what we expect and desire from the pen of this writer ... a deeply
interesting novel, a fitting companion to ' Allan Quatermain.' " — Public Opinion.

" The story of the combat between the dwarf Otter and the huge ' snake,' a crocodile
of antediluvian proportions, and the following account of the escape of the Outram party,
is one of the best pieces of dramatic fiction which Mr. Haggard has ever written." — Bos-
ton Advbrtisbr.

" One of his most ingenious fabrications of marvellous adventure, and so skilfully is it
done that the reader loses sieht of the improbability in the keen interest of the tale. Two
loving and beautiful women ngure in the narrative, and in his management of the heroine
and her rival the author shows his originality as well as in the sensational element which is
his peculiar province."— Boston Bbacon.

" ' The People of the Mist ' is the best novel he has written since ' She,' and it mm
that famous romance very close indeed. The dwarf Otter is fully up to the marie of Rider
Haggard's best character, and his fight with the snake god is as powerful as anything the
author has written. The novel abounds in striking scenes and incidents, and the read-
er's interest is never allowed to flag. The attack on the slave kraal and the rescue of Juaniu
are in Mr. Haggard's best vein."— Charleston News.

*' It has all the dash and go of Haggard's other tales of adventure, and few readers will
bcktroubled over the impossible things in the story as they follow the exciting exploits of the
hero and his redoubtable dwarf Otter. . . . Otter is a character worthy to be dassed
with Umslopogus, the great Zulu warrior. Haggard has never imagined anything more ter-
ror-inspiring than the adventures of Leonard and his party in the awful palace of the Chil
dren of Mist, nor has he ever described a more thrilling combat than that between the dwaii
and the huge water snake in the sacred pool."— San Francisco Chronicle.

" It'displays all of this popular author's imagery, power to evoke and combine miraculooi
incidents, and skill in analyzing human motives and emotions in the most striking manner.
He is not surpassed by any modern writer of fiction for vividness of description or keenness
of perception and boldness of characterization. The reader will find here the same qualities
in full measure that stamped * King Solomon's Mines,' 'Jess,' ' She,' and his other earlia
romances with their singular power. The narrative is a series of scenes and pictures ; the
events are strange to the verge of ehoulishness : the action of the story is tireless, and the
reader is held as with a grip not to l)e shaken off." — Boston Courier.

" Sometimes we are reminded of ' King Solomon's Mines ' and sometimes of She,' but the
mixture has the same elements of interest, dwells in the same strange land of mystery and
adventure, and appeals to the same public that Lays and reads Mr. Haggard's works for the
sake of the rapid adventure, the strong handling of improbable incident, and the faaciaatioB
of the supematoral." — BaLTinoRE Sun.

LOMMAirS, eREEH, & 00^ 91-93 TITTH AVE., NEW TOEL

JOAN HASTE

A NOVEL.
By H. rider haggard,

AUTHOR OF "she," " HEART OF THE WORLD," " THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST," BTC,BTC

With 20 full-pacre Illustrations by P. S. Wilson.
12mOi Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

*' It is less adventurous iii theme, the tone is more quiet, and the manner more
in keeping with the so-called realistic order of fiction than anything Mr. Haggard has
heretofore published. 'Joan Haste ' is by far the most earnest, and in many ways the
most impressive work of Mr. Haggard's that lias yet been printed. The insiglit into
character which it displays is almost invariably keen and true. Every personality in
the story is fully alive, and individual traits of thought and action are revealed little
by little as the narrative progresses, until they stand forth as definite and consistent
creations."— The Boston Beacon.

" All the strong and striking peculiarities that have made Mr. Haggard's earlier
works so deservedly popular are repeated here in a new spirit. Not only tliat, but
bis literary execution snows an enlarged skill and betrays the master-hand of self-
restraint that indicate maturity of power. His conception of character is improved by
the elimination of all crudeness and haste, and his delineations are consequently closer
to life. One is reminded strongly of Dickens in his admirable drawing of minor char-
acters. Mrs. Bird is such a character. . . . The illustrations of the book are nu-
merous and strikingly good. Many of the scenes are intensely dramatic, and move the
feeling to the higher'pitch. . . . Even in the little concerns of the story the wealth
of its imagination appears, glowing in the warmth of its unstinted creations. There is
a splendor in his description, a weird spirit in his imagery, a marvelous variety of
detail, and at all points a creative force tnat give a perpetual freshness and newness to
the fiction to which he gives his powers. To take up one of his fascinating books is
to finish it, and this story of 'Joan Haste ' is not to be outdone by the best of them all.
The strength, emphasis, and vij^or of his style as well as of his treatment is to be
credited to none out superior gifts and powers. . . . 'Joan Haste' will become
the favorite of everybody." —Boston Courier.

" Mr. Haggard's new story is a sound and pleasing example of modem English
fiction . . . a book worth reading. ... lis personages are many and well
contrasted, and all reasonably human and interesting.^'— New York Times.

" In this pretty, pathetic story Mr. Haggard has lost none of his true art. . . .
In every respect 'Joan Haste ' contains masterly literary work of which Mr. Haggard
has been deemed incapable by some of his former critics. Certainly no one will call
his latest book weak or uninteresting, while thousands who enjoy a well-told story of
tragic, but true love, will pronounce 'Joan Haste' a better piece of work than Mr.
Haggard's stones of adventure."— Boston Advertiser.

" This story is full of startling incidents. It is intensely interesting."

—Cleveland Gazette.

" The plot thickens with the growth of the story, which is one of uncommon interest
and pathos. The book has the advantage of the original illustrations. "

—Cleveland World.

"'Joan Haste' is really a good deal more than the ordinary novel of English
country life. It is the best thing Haggard has done. There is some character sketch-
ing in It that IS equal to anything of this kind we have had recently."

—Courier, Lincoln, Neb.

" In this unwonted field he has done well. 'Joan Haste ' is so for ahead of his for-
mer works that it will surprise even those who have had most confidence in his ability.

To those who read Thomas Hardy's 'Tess of the D'Urbervilles ' the atmosphere
and incidents of Joan Haste ' will seem familiar. It is written along much the same
lines, and in this particular it might be accused of a lack of originality ; but Haggard
bar come dangerously close to beating Hardv in his own field. Hardy's coarseness is
missing, but Hardy's power is excelled."— Munsev's Magazine.

LOHQMANS, OEEEN, k 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, HEW tOBK.

THE JEWEL OF YNYS GALON:

BBINQ A HITHERTO UNPRINTED CHAPTER IN
THE HISTORY OP THE SEA ROVERS.

By OWEN RHOSCOMYL.

With 12 illustrations by Lancelot Speed,
Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $ I •25.

*' The tale Is exceptionally well told : the descriptive passages are strong and viv*
id without being over-elaborated ; and the recital of fights and adventures on sea and
land is thrilling, without leading to any excess of horrors. The characters in the boolc
are not all villians, but the progress of the narrative is lighted up by the ideals and
strivings of brave and honorable men. The book is certainly a most attractive addi-
tion to notion of adventure, for it shows a fine degree of imagination on the part of the
author. A glance at the illustrations by Lancelot Speed will alone be enougn to incite
a reading of the story from beginning to end."— The Beacon, Boston.

*' It is a work of genius—^f the romantic-realistic school. The story is one of
pirates and buried treasure in an island off the coast of Wales, and so well is it done
that it iascinates the reader, putting him under an hypnotic spell, lasting long after the
book has been laid aside. It is dedicated to 'everv one whose blood rouses at a tale
of tall fights and reckless adventure,' to men and boys alike, yet there will be keener
appreciation by the boys of larger growth, whose dreams * of buried treasure and of
one day discovering some hoard whereby to become rich beyond imagination ' have
become dim and blurred in the ' toil and struggle for subsistence. ' ' The Jewel of Ynys
Galon' is one of the great books of 1895 and will live long."— The World, New York. "^

" It is a splendid story of the sea, of battle and hidden treasure. This picture of ^j
the times of the sea rovers is most skillfull v drawn in transparent and simple English,
and it holds from cover to cover the absorbed interest of the reader."

—Press, Philadelphia.

" It is a story after the heart of both man and boy. There are no dull moments in jbtJ
it, and we find ourselves impatient to get on, so anxious are we to see what the next

turn in the events is to bring forth ; and when we come to the end we exclaim in {^^

sorrow, " Is that all ? " and begin to turn back the leaves and re-read some of the most )^^

exciting incidents. ^^^

Owen Rhoscomyl has just the talents for writing books of this kind, and they are [|^

worth a dozen of some of the books of to-day where life flows sluggishly on in a araw- ^

ing-room. When the author writes another we want to know of it." — Times, JtoSTON. -^^4

*' The style of this thrilling story is intensely vivid and dramatic, but there is
nothing in it of the cheap sensational order. It is worthy a place among the classics fn
for boys."— Advertiser, Boston. ici

" The present school of romantic adventure has produced no more strikingly ina*
aginative story than this weird tale of Welsh pirates in the eighteenth century. . . •
A most enthralling tale, . . . told with great artistic finish and with intense spirit. X
It may be recommended without reserve to every lover of this class of fiction."

-Times, Philadelphia.

lai

JTK

ax
ai'

ve

i(

isti
ro

lax

Kidnapped ^ and the ' White Company ' aiid 'Francis Cludde 'anT^Lorna Doone? 3 Ji
get The Jewel of Ynys Galon ' and read it. You will not be disappointed." ro

—Gazette, Colorado Springs, Col. r b«

" Our own interest in the book led us to read it at a sitting that went far into the "
night. The old Berserker spirit is considerably abroad in these pages, and the blood
coursed the faster as stirring incident followed desperate situation ana daring enter ti:
prise."— Literary World, London.

LOTOMAHS, ftREEH, & 00.. 91-93 PIFTH AVE., HEW TOEt

ATTLEMENT AND TOWER.

A ROMANCE.

By OWEN RHOSCOMYL,

AUTHOR OF "the JEWEL OF YNYS GALON."

Frontispiece by R. Caton Woodvllle. 12mo, Cloth.

Ornamental, $1.25.

s a rare tale of the wars of the Commonwealth. The hero, Howel, is a young
•rd whose father gives him his hereditary sword and shield, and sends him to
' the king. His adventures in love and war are intensely fascinating, and the
Lits down the book with extreme reluctance. The author has carefully studied
>ry of the times, and, besides being a thrilling tale, his story is a charming
>f the manners and customs of the day. It is a book well worth reading."

— New Orleans Picayune.

. . a powerful romance by Owen Rhoscomyl of the swashbuckling days in
^ales, when the Roundheads warred against the Cavaliers, and Charles I. of

lost his head, both metaphorically and literally. . . . The picturesque
e style of the author, and the remarkable power he displays in his character
, place his book among the notable pieces of fiction of the year. There is
r hghting, hard riding, love-making, and blood-letting in the story, but the
ouch given to his work by the author places his product far above the average
iny tales of like character that are now striving to satisfy the present demand
n that has power without prurience."— World, New Vokk.

ere is a vein of very pretty romance which runs through the more stirring
f battle 'and of siege. The novel is certainly to be widely read by those who
tale of a weil-fought battle and of gallant youth in the days when men carved
y to fame and foitunc with a sword."— Advertiser, Boston.

. . a rattling story of adventure, privation, and peril hi the wild Welsh,
during the English civil war. ... In this stirring narrative Mr. Rhos-

is packed away a great deal of entertainment for people who like exciting

—Commercial Advertiser, New York.

tere is a flavor of old world chivalry in his tempestuous wooing of winsome,
is Barbara, a charming love idyl. . . . The hot blood of the Welshman
n into many and diverse dangers, yet so gallant is he, so quick of wit, and
id ever on sword hilt, that one accompanies him with unflaggnig attention. . . .
les of the story are historic, and the author's fertile and ingenious imagination
tructed a thrilling tale in which the dramatic situations crowd thick and fast
:h other."— Free Press, Detroit.

ven Rhoscomyl, who wrote an excellent tale when he penned * The Jewel of
alon,' has followed it with another, different in kind but its equal in
. . . Deals with an entirely different phase of Welsh legend from his
•tory, for it enters the domain of history. . . . It is full of merit, and is
to pass muster as one of the successful novels of the season. . . . The plot
ed, and there is a mystery in ft which is not wrought out until the concluding
.... The story will appeal strongly to the lover of romance and ad-
"— Brooklyn Eagle.

; calls his book a * mosaic,' and if such it be its stones are the quaint customs,
ways, and weird legends of the Welsh, welded by strong and clear diction and
with the pigments of a brilliant fancy. Gay pleasures, stem war, and true love
erfully portrayed, rivalling each other in the interest of the reader. And
the heroes and their castles have I'^n^ been buried beneath the dust of time,
er sends an electric current through his pages making every actor and bis sur-
^s alive again. He brings each successive phase of adventure, love, or battle,
le imagination, clad in language that impresses itself upon the memory and
tie book fascinating."— Republican, Denver.

s story is a stirring one, full of events, alive with action, and gilded with sen-
f romance."— Courier, Boston.

HUASQ, OBEEN, k 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., NEW YOBE.

FOR THE WHITE ROSE OF ARNO

A Story of the Jacobite Rlslnsr of 1 74>5
By OWEN RHOSCOMYL

AUTHOR OF **THE JEWEL OF YNYS GALON," ** BATTLEMENT AND TOWER,"

ETC

Crown 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1.25

liHJ

" His * Jewel of Ynys Galon,' was a splendid story of piracy on the Welsh coast [[

His ' Battlement and Tower ' was a good story of Prince Rupert's day. ... A third g
romance, ' For the White Rose of Arno,' a story of the Jacobite rising of 1745, is pic- ^'
turesque and exciting. It can be recommended to every lover of a fine romantic melo- ^l

drama."— Express, Buffalo, N.Y. £^

•* There are plenty of stirring events in the story, love, treachery, and revenge Us

B^hting at cross-purposes. One of the most graphic descriptions is that of the wm- n'u
dmg of the hero and heroine. Mr. Rhoscomyl has a pictur^que imagination, and he

paints vividly with bold, true strokes. . . . The author has studied the period ol „

which be writes with great care. He has not allowed his imagination to run away ^^
with historical facts, and the book will appeal not only to lovers of romance and adveii
ture, but to students of English history."— Gazette, Colorado Springs.

** The ' White Rose of Arno ' will delight all lovers of a good romantic novel."

—Eagle, Brooklyn. N.Y.

"... in this tale we are given a most stirring picture of the time of Charles |{ .

Edward, the Pretender, and his devoted supporters. Nearly all of the incidents take m^

place amid the hills and vales of beautiful wales, and the contrast between scenery ^

and wild human passions does much to heighten the effect of the story, which is very x
well told. The author is a Welshman, and the scenes he depicts one feels still burn
within his soul ; hence his narrative is in the highest degree atiiniated and forceful."

—Evening Transcript, Boston.

"... The story never lags for a moment, nor sags from its pitch of high

heroism . . . Some of the scenes rival those others, well known, and. inded, ^^-

famous in ' David Balfour,' and ' Kidnapped.' . . . It is a splendid story. • • • ^

Prince Charles fibres more as a shadow in the background than a leader, but he im* ^

presses himself vividly as a great personal inspiration."— Times-Herald, Chicago. ^^

" Owen Rhoscomyl has already written some rare stories of the wars of the Com- ;t«
mon wealth that have met with a splendid showing of practical appreciation by a ijtc
world-wide circle of readers. This latest novel by the pleasing Welsh writer is one of
the most powerful romances that have emanated from his pen, and will doubtless re^ .
ceive as graceful a welcome to fiction literature as his previous efforts have done. It ^
is a stirring story of Wales when the Roundheads were warring against the cavaliers, ^
and Charles I of England lost his head and his coveted throne. The story is brimful ^
of fighting, of hard travel and riding, and old-time love making, and the flavor of old ^
world chivalry in the tenderer portions of the novel is charming and complete. With ^
the pen of a realist, the author hurries his readers back to live over the dead, old wars,
to dwell in strange Welsh castles that long ago crumbled into dust, and to view the
history and romances of those early days as something tangible with our own exist-
ences. The style is always active, virile and picturesque, and there is not a dull or '^
tame chapter in the book."— Courier, Boston. >-

•• The story is told with spirit, and holds the attention without effort. The action ''\^

is swift, the episodes stirrinsi, the character drawing admirable, and the style good. |^

The ultimate defeat of the Pretender, and the finald^nouement are tragic in their 1
intensity, and powerfully pictured."— Brooklyn Times.

"This is a really stirring story, full of wild adventure, yet having an atmosphere p

of historic truthfulness, and conveying incidentally a good deal of information that is '

fividently based upon fresh study."— Times, Philadelphia. iuu

»il

LONGMANS, QiKEES, k 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW TOB£

]

I

THE CHEVALIER D'AURIAC.

A ROMANCE.

By S. LEVETT YEATS.

AUTHOR OF "the HONOUR OF SAVELU," ETC., ETC.

1 2mo, cloth, ornamental, $1.26.

" I'he story is full of action, it is alive from cover to cover, and is so compact with thrlU-
ingr adventure that there is no room for a dull page. The chevalier tells his own story, but
Ik is the most charming of egoists. He wins our sympathies from the outset by his boyish
naivete, his downright manlmess and bravery. . . . Not only has Mr. Yeats written an
acellent tale of adventure, but he has shown a close study of character which does not bor-
^iw merely from the trappings of historical actors, but which denotes a keen knowledge of
ii&man nature, and a shrewd insight into the workings of human motives. . . . The
iashion of the period is kept well in mind, the style of writing has just that touch of old -
^hioned formality which serves to veil the past m>m the present, and to throw the lights
aod shadows into a harmony of tone. . . . The work has literary quality of a genuine
sort in it, which raises it above a numerous host of its fellows in kind.

—Bookman, New York.

"... A story of Huguenot days, brim full of action that takes shape in plots, sud-
den surprises, fierce encounters, and cunning intrigues. The author is so saturated with the
times of which he writes that the story is realism itself. . . . The story is brilliant and
thrilling, and whoever sits down to give it attention will reach the last page with regret."

— Globs, Boston.

"... A tale of more than usual interest and of genuine literary merit . . .
Hie characters and scenes in a sense seem far removed, yet they live in our hearts and seem
Contemporaneous through the skill and philosophic treatment of^the author. Those men and
Women seem akin to us ; they are flesh and blood, and are impelled by human motives as we
are. One cannot follow the fortunes of this hero without feehng refreshed and benefited."

—Globe-Democrat, St. Louis.

" A book that may be recommended to all those who appreciate a good, hearty, rollicking
Mory of adventure, with lots of fierce fighting and a proper proportion of love-making. . . .
^There is in his novel no more history than is necessary, and no tedious detail ; it is a story
inspired by, but not slavishly followmg, history. . . . I'he book is full of incident, and
from the first chapter to the last the action never flags. ... In the Chevalier the author
has conceived a sympathetic character, for d'Auriac is more human and less of a puppet than
most heroes of histoncal novels, and consequently there are few readers who will not find en-
joyment in the story of his thrilling adventures. . . . This book should be read by all
who love a good story of adventures. There is not a dull page in it." — New York Sun.

i(

A capital story of the Dumas-Weyman order. . . . The first chapters bring one
right into the thick of the story, and from thence on the interest is unflagging. The Cheva-
lier himself is an admirably studied character, whose straightforwardness and simplicity,
braverjr, and impulsive and reckless chivalry, win the reader's sympathy. D'Auriac has
something of the intense vitality of Dumas's heroes, and the delightful improbabilities through
which he passes so invincibly have a certain human quality which renders them akin to our
day. Mr. Levett Yeats has done better in this book than m anything else he has written."

— Picayune, New Orleans.

** The interest in the story does not la^ for an instant ; all is life and action. The pict-
uresque historical setting is admirably pamted, and the characters are skilfully drawn, espe-
cially that of the king, a true monarch, a brave soldier, and a gentleman. The Chevalier lo
the typical hero of romance, fearing nothing save a stain on his honor, and with such a hero
there can not but be vigor and excitement in every page of the story."

— Mail and Express, New York.

*' As a story of adventure, pure and simple, after the type originally seen in Dumas's
'Three Musketeers,' the book is well worthy of high praise. — Outlook, New York.

" We find all the fascination of mediaeval France, which have made Mr. Weyman's stories
such general favorites. . . . We do not see how any intelligent reader can take it up
without keen enjoyment." — Living Church, Chicago.

LONGMAHS, GEEEN, k 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVE, NEW YOEZ.

THE PRINCESS DESIREE

A ROMANCE
By CLEMENTINA BLACK

AUTHOR OK *'aN AGITATOR," ** MISS FALKLAND," ETC.

With 8 Full-page Illustrations by John Williamson
zamo, Linen Cloth, Ornamental, f z.25

**The reader who befirins this very fascinating tale will feel bound to finish it. ..
. . . The story runs naturally in a highly romantic vein. It is, however, so brightly^
and choicely written and is so interesting throughout, as to be to the reader a source
of real delight." — Aberdeen Daily Free Press. j^

** Miss Black may be congratulated on achieving a distinct success and furnishiog'r*^
a thoroughly enjoyable tale."— Athenaeum, London. f '

** ts a romantic story of the adventures of the heiress to ajpretty German prind*|^
pality. It has a pure love story, and is written with spirit." — Outlook, New York, i^i

** There is plenty of intrigue and royal family affairs, and those who love a his*lb
torical novel will enjoy this one. It has the air of being founded on facts."— Com-
mercial Tribune, Cincinnati. ^

** Once in a while there appears a novel that, without manifesting any spedal aI
originality, yet leaves with its reader a sense of satisfaction that many more im- *r
portant works fail to give. Such a story is the "Princess Dfesir^e.— Buffalo
Express.

"The story is thoroughly satisfactory, it contains little sentiment but many inter-
esting situations, and much forceful action. It is told with a directness that attracts |
in these busy days and is an admirable picture of French and German intrigue. It is
well illustrated and bound." — Boston Times.

** This readable novel may.be read at a sitting with unflagging: io- ^

terest." — Public Ledger, Philadelphia.

" The plot is exceedingly well managed, in spite of its demands upon the credolitjr
of the reader, and the author's style is terse, clear cut, and piquant. The eight full-
page iUustrations by John Williamson are cleverly done." — Boston Beacon.

"A brightly written story, full of unusual adventure of a quasi-political nature.
... Is entertaining reading throughout." — Press, Philadelphia. y

"A vivacious novel." — Public Opinion, New York. i

" It is amusing in the picture it gives of the sudden change of an ardent Republi-
can, through love for one of the royal race, to a Monarchist. There is a pleasant r
freshness of tone about it, and Ludovic De Sainte is quite as worthy of the Grand :
Duchess of Felsenheim as was Rudolph of the Princess Fluvia. The political intrigue i
is simple yet very exciting and effective. There is no effort at high tragedy, hut the ;

{>lot is simply and skillfully developed and holds interest well. . . . Altogether, it
s a brave story, and you will like to read it." — Nassau Literary Magazine, Princb-
TON, N. J.

" The Princess D^sir^e .... will win universal praise. It is one of the
most charming love stories that have been published of late years, pure and optimistic,
reminding us, but by no means as a servile imitation, of another lady, the romantic
^ Princess Osra.' whose heart, or want of heart, was so ably described by Mr.
Anthony Hope. — Star, Montreal. i

" Except that there is nothing in it that is either supernatural or essentially im- ■
probable, it has much of the charm of a fairy tale. The style is pure and the story '
dramatic with the additional attraction.of eight or ten well executed illustrations.—
San Francisco Chronicle.

" There is enough exciting interest in * The Princess D^sir^e * to make one i^sb

to read it through as soon as possible There is an undesirable charm io

the narrative." — New York Commercial Advertiser.

LONGMANS, GREEN & CO., 91^93 FIFTH AVE., NEW YORK

WHAT NECESSITY KNOWS.

A Novel of Canadian Life and Charaoter.
By MISS L. DOUGALL,

AUTHOR or " BRGGAR8 ALL.'*

Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1.00.

"• A very remarlMiUe novel, and not a book that can be lightly classified or ranged witfi
tther modem works of fiction. . . . It is a distinct creation ... a structure ol
oo*'le and original design and of grand and dignified conception. . . . The book bristles
whn epigrammatic sayings which one would like to remember. ... It will appeal
ttron^fy by force of its ori^inaliry and depth of insight and for the eloquence and dignity of
it3rle m the descriptive passage>."—MANCHBSTBK Guardian* London.

" We think we are well within the mark in saying that this novel is one of the three or
four best novels of the year. The social atmosphere as well as the external conditions of
Canadian life arc reproduced faithfully. The author is eminently thoughtful, yet the story
Is not distinctively one of moral purpose. The play of character and the clash of purpose are
finely wrought out. . . . What inves the book its highest value is really the. author^s
deep knowwdce of motive and character. The reader continually comes across keen obser-
vations and subtle expressions that not infrequently recall George £hot. The novel is one
that is worth reading a second time.**— Outlook, New Yokic

"Keen analysis, deeu spiritual insight, and a quick sense of beauty in nature and
human nature are combined to put before us a drama of human life ... the book is not
3n1y interesting but stimulating, not only strnn? but suggestive, and we. may say of th«
writer, m Sidney Lanier's words, *She shows man what he may be in termaof what he is.'*

— T.ITFPAFVWOKLD, Bo«^OM.

BEGGARS ALL.

A NOVEL.

Bv MISS L. DO UGALL.
Sixth Edition. 12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.00.

" This is one of the strongest as well as most original romances of the year. . . . The
plot is extraordinary. • . . The close of the story is powerful and natural. ... A
masterpiece uf restrained and legitimate dramatic fiction.' —Litbraky World.

"To say thut ' Beggars AlP is a remarkable novel is to put the case mildly indeed, for
it is one of the most original, discerning, and thorous^hly philosophical presentations of
character that has appeared in English for many a day. . . . Emphatically a novel
that thoughtful people ought to read ... the perusal of it will by m.nny be reckoned
among the intellectual experiences that are not easily forgotten." — Boston Bbacon.

•' A story of thrilling interest.*'— Homb Journal.

•• A very nnusinl quality of novel. It is written with ability ; it tells a strong story with
elaborate analysis of character and motive . . . it is of decided interest and worth
reading.**— CoMMBRCiAL Advbrtisbr, N. Y.

" It is moje than a story for mere summer reading, but deserves a permanent place
among the best works of modem fiction. The author ha« struck a vein of originality purely
her own. • . . It is tragic, pathetic, humerous by turns. . . . Miss Dougall has, in
fact, scored a creat success. Her book is artistic, realistic, intensely dramatic — in fact, one
of the novels of the year.**— Boston Traveller.

" * Beggars All * is a noble work of art, but is also somethint^ more and something better,
li is a book with a soul in it, and in a sense, therefore, it may be described ^ as an mspired
work. The inspiration of genius may or may not be lacking to it, but the inspiration of a
pure and beautifiil spirituality pervades it completely . . . the characters are truth-
rally and powerfully drawn, the situations nnely imagined, and the story profoundly
{nteresting.**— Chicago Tribune.

LOKGlCAirS, QiKEES, k 00., 91-93 FITTH AYE., ]7E¥ TOBE,

FLOTSAIVI.

THE STUDY OF A LIFE.

By henry SETON MERRIMAN,

AUTHOR OF "with EDGED TOOLS," "THE SOWERS," ETC

With Frontispiece and Vignette by H. G. MASSEY.
1 2mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

" The scene of this thoroughly interesting book is laid at the time of the great
Indian mutiny of 1857, and the chapters devoted to that terrible episode in the history
of English rule in India are among the most interesting in the volume, the capture of
Delhi in particular being graphically described." — Herald, Oneonta, N. Y.

" It is a powerful study." — Cincinnati Commercial Gazette.

" One of the strongest novels of the season." — Boston Advertiser.

" It is decidedly a novel worth reading.*'--NEW England Magazine. """

"... From first to last our interest in the dramatic development of the plot is ^
never allowed to flag. * Flotsam ' will amply sustain the reputation which Mr.
Merriman has won."— Charleston News and Courier.

" It is a rather stirring story, dealing with breezy adventures in the far East, and
sketching in strong outlines some very engaging phases of romance in India not down
in Mr. Kipling's note-books."— Independent, New York.

" It is a novel of strong, direct, earnest purpose, which begins well in a literary
sense and ends better." — Sun, Baltimore.

" A brilliant gift for characterization and dramatic effect put his novels among
the best of the season for entertainment, and, to no small extent, for instruction."

—Dial, Chicago.

"Mr. Merriman can write a good story ; he proved that in ' The Sowers,' and he
shows it anew in this. . . . The story is a strong one and told with freshness and
simple realism."— Current Literature, New York.

" His story is remarkably well told."— Herald, Columbia, Mo.

" It is a novel written with a purpose, yet it is entirely free from preaching or |
moralizing. The young man, Harry Wylam, whose career from childhood to the '
prime of manhood is described, is a bright, daring, and lovable character, who starts
with every promise of a successful life, but whose weakness of will, and love of
pleasure, wreck his bright hopes midway. The author shows unusual skill in dealing
with a subject which in less discreet hands might have been an excuse for morbidity." j

—Boston Beacon. '

" A story of lively and romantic incident. . . . His story is remarkably well j
told."— New York Sun. >

" The story is full of vigorous action . . . and interesting."

—Public Opinion.

LOH6HAN8, GBEEH, k 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW TOBL 1 1

THE VIOLET.

A Novel.
By JULIA MAGRUDER,

AUTHOR OF " PRINCESS SONIA," ETC.

ill Illustrations by Charles Dana Gibson. Crown 8vo,
Cloth, Ornamental, Gilt Top, $ 1 .25.

Julia Magruder has made a very pretty story of * The Violet '— a story with just
touches of graceful sentiment that are sure to gratify the ^irl reader. ... It
leasure to come upon a romance so pure in motive, so rehned in sentiment, and
licate in manner . . . and the book has an added charm in the illustrations
larles Dana Gibson, who seems to have caught the spirit of the text to a nicety,
o have interpreted it with an admirably sympathetic technique."

- Beacon, Boston.
Julia Mdgruder has given her readers a charming story in * The Violet '— K)ne as
t and simple and lovely as the modest flower itself. . . . It is a beautiful
Lcter study, breathing forth the fragrance of womanly sweelneos in every phrase,
llustrations by Gibson are apt, and the binding and make-up of the book appro-
ely attractive."— Times, Boston.

' Is a good, wholesome love story. The plot is natural and the characters real.
. 'The Violet* is a study which the reader may wish could have been pro-
»d."— Eagle, Brooklyn.

'A story altogether as beautiful and inspiring as its name . . . one of the
charming books of the season, as it is an old fashioned story with a delicious bit
^stery interwoven with the romance of a young heroine who, though poor, pos-
s every grace and accomplishment." — Courier, Boston.

' It is a pure, sweet story, with a fragrance as of violets clinging to it, and it de-
fully sets forth the attributes of true manhood and true womanhood."

—Home Journal, N. V.

DOREEN.

The Story of a Singer.
By EDNA LYALL,

lOR OF " WE TWO," " DONOVAN," '* THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SLANDER," " in

THE GOLDEN DAYS," ETC., ETC.

Crown 8vo, Buckram Cloth, Ornamental, $1 ,50.

' A plot which has original life and vigor. . . . Altogether a good novel, and
; author had written nothing else she could safely rest her literary reputation on
een.' "—Public Opinion, N. Y.

• Edna Lyall's . . . new story . . . is one of her best. It has, naturally,
gh of tragedy to make it intensely interesting without being sensational in any
sive sense. The heroine, Doreen, is a delightful character, sturdy, strong, lovable,
anly, and genuinely Irish. Miss Bayly is a conscientious writer, imbued with

faeling, a high purpose, and her style is attractive and pure."

— Boston Daily Advertiser.

• It is a very clever story indeed, and skillfully written."

—New Orleans Picayune.

' This is perhaps one of the best of Edna Lyall's clever stories. Doreen is a young
I girl, who loves her native land, and who is a credit to her race. . . . Inter-
en with the story of her experience and of her love for a young Englishman is an
re !ting account of the rise and progress of the Home Rule movement. Miss Lyal]*s
c IS a charming tale, and will not fail to delight every one who reads it. The girl
etm is a beautiful character."— Catholic News.

)HOMAHS, OBEEF, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., MEW TOBE.

WAYFARING MEN.

By EDNA LYALL,

AUTHOR OP "DONOVAN," " WE TWO," "DOREEN," ETC

Crown 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1.50.

"... We take up Edna Lvall's last novel . . . with high expectations, and
we are not disappointed. Miss Bayly has acquired a wonderful insight into human nature,
and this last production of her pen is full of the true portrayals of life. . . . The whole
book is a whiff of ' caller air ' in these days of degenerate fiction."

— Commercial Advertiser, New York.

" One of her best stories. It has all the qualities which have won her popularity in the
past." — Sentinel, Milwaukee.

"A well-written and vigorous story."— Observer, New York.

" It is a strong story, thoroughly well constructed, . . . with the characters very
skilfully handled. . . . Altogether the story is far above the ordinary, and bids fair to
be one of the most successful of the opening season." — Commercial, Buffalo.

" Edna Lyall ... has added another excellent volume to the number of her ro-
mances. . . . It sustains the reputation of the author for vigorous writing and graceful
depicting of life, both in the peasanr« cabin and the noble's hall.'*

— Observer, Utica, New York.

" Miss Lyall's novel is one of unflagging interest, written in that clear, virile style, with
its gentle humor and dramatic effectiveness, that readers well know and appreciate. . . .
On many pages of the story the writer reveals her sympathetic admiration for Ireland and
the Irish. * Wayfaring Men ' is a literarv tonic to be warmly welcomed and cheerfully com-
mended as an antidote to much of the unhealthy, morbid, and enervating fiction of the day."

— Press, Philadelphia.

" The author has made a pretty and interesting love-story, ... a truthful picture of
modern stage life, and a thoroughly human story that holds the interest to the end."

— Tribune, Chicago.

" It is a story that you will enjoy, because it does not start out to reform the world in less
than five hundred pages, only to wind up by being suppressed by the government It is a
bright story of modem life, and it will be enjoyed by those who delighted in * Donovan,'
' We Two, and other books by this author."— Cincinnati Tribune.

"A new book by E^na Lyall is sure of a hearty welcome. * Wayfaring Men* will not
disappoint any of her admirers. It has many of the characteristics of her earlier and still
popular books. It is a story of theatrical life, with which the author shows an unusually
extensive and S)'mpathetic acquaintance. " — New Orleans Picayune.

"Characterized by the same charming simplicity of style and realism that won for
' Donovan ' and ' Knight Errant ' their popularity. . . . Miss Lyall has made no attempt
to create dramatic situations, though it is so largely a tale of stage life, but has dealt vrith
the trials and struggles of an actor's career with an insight and deucacy that are truly pleas-
ing.** — The Argonaut, San Francisco.

•

" Is a straightforward, interesting story, in which people and things theatrical have
much to do. The hero is an actor, young and good, and the heroine— as Miss Lyall's hero-
ines are sure to be— is a real woman, winning and lovable. There is enough excitement in
the book to please romance-lovers, and there are no problems to vex the souls of those who
love a story for the story's sake. It will not disappoint the large number of persons who
have learned to look forward with impatient expectation to the publication of Miss L3rall's
' next novel' ' Wayfaring Men ' is sure of a wide and a satisfied reading.**

— Womankind, Springfield, Ohio.

LONOHAlfS, GSEEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AYR, NEW TORE.

-J 11 ^^^